


pretend, now (from here on out)

by johnnlaurenss



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, College/University, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Character, Okay that's it, Other, Pining, Romantic Comedy, as a plot point not a setting, bc he's a GIFT, everyone is in love with feuilly, flannels, lots of swearing bc it's baz and feu lbr, multiple actually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 07:11:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11732112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnnlaurenss/pseuds/johnnlaurenss
Summary: It's supposed to be a joke.It's kind of a shitty one, since he's got tears in his eyes and his hands are shaking and he's trying desperately not to freak out. Coping mechanisms and all that, right? Laughter to hide the pain?Feuilly fucking sucks at making jokes.He asks Bahorel to marry him first.*In which Feuilly doesn't have a lot of options outside of getting married, and Bahorel's his best friend but there's a little bit more, and things can only get more complicated.





	pretend, now (from here on out)

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone settling themselves down to read 26k+ words of pining, oblivious fools - I wish you luck, and I thank you for reading.
> 
>  
> 
> Unbeta'd, all mistakes and confusing plot points are my own.

It's supposed to be a joke.

 

 

 

It's kind of a shitty one, since he's got tears in his eyes and his hands are shaking and he's trying desperately not to freak out. Coping mechanisms and all that, right? Laughter to hide the pain?

 

Feuilly fucking _sucks_ at making jokes.

 

His eyes are red and puffy when he pulls his phone out and shoots off a text to Bahorel. He doesn't really think about it as he's typing, the words coming out of some internal instinct.

 

**To: Baz**

[4:38] will you marry me

 

He laughs sort of hysterically to himself and pockets his phone as he collapses on a bench outside the financial aid building. Students breeze past him totally unaware of his impeding meltdown.

 

He works four fucking jobs, and he still can't fucking pay for college.

 

Talk about a _joke_. Feuilly should just start telling _that_ instead of his lame-assed half-attempts at actual humor.

 

Maybe he should call Enjolras. Enjolras would marry him. He loves Enjolras anyway, They could make it work. Except that Enjolras is obnoxiously in love with Grantaire and honestly, Feuilly used to be happy for him but now he's just annoyed at love because it's putting a serious wrench in his plans to fake marry for financial aid.

 

 _Damn_ Grantaire.

 

He pulls his phone out again.

 

**To: Enj**

[4:40] your stupid crush is ruining my life and my plans to propose

 

To his delight, Enjolras doesn’t even take that long to reply.

 

**From: Enj**

[4:41] ???

 

**To: Enj**

[4:41] maybe i want to marry you enjolras ever think of that

[4:41] people can get married

[4:42] just two dudes being dudes guys being guys

[4:42] pals getting hitched

 

His phone starts to ring in his hand. Feuilly pretends like he’s not still crying.

 

“Yo,” he says, totally casual.

 

“Are you feeling alright?” Enjolras demands. Straightforward as ever—Feuilly _does_ kind of have a crush on him, if he’s being honest.

 

 _Lucky_ Grantaire.

 

“Sure,” Feuilly says. He picks at a thread at the bottom of his jacket and frowns at it. If threads are starting to fray, he needs to fix them before they unravel and he has to spend money on clothes instead of other things. He sniffles pathetically, because his nose is running from the crying he definitely _isn’t_ doing. Enjolras scoffs, and honestly Feuilly isn’t sure anyone has ever lied to Enjolras ever because how _could they_ when he knows everything about you even when you’re just talking on the phone? “Okay, so not really.”

 

“What’s going on?” Enjolras prods. His voice is less harsh, less demanding than his initial tone and Feuilly is grateful for it.

 

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to admit this without breaking down.

 

“I can’t afford to stay in college for the next semester,” he begins, and there’s another hysterical noise bubbling through him and threatening to burst out. He supposes there _isn’t_ a way for him to do this without breaking down. “It’s supposed to be my last semester. But because I’m working four jobs, I’m out of the lower bracket for financial aid. My academic aid is running dry too, since I didn’t get in enough intern hours with Andre last semester since I was working four fucking jobs—”

 

“Feuilly,” Enjolras says. He sounds sad.

 

“I can’t get aid other than unsubsidized loans,” mutters Feuilly miserably.

 

“Unless you have a kid,” Enjolras continues.

 

“Or turn twenty-four.”

 

“Or get married.”

 

Feuilly laughs, a burst of sound closer to a sob at this point. “Yeah, uh,” he giggles. He’s crying again. He wipes furiously at his eyes. “I kind of asked Bahorel to marry me. But he’s at work and won’t reply for a while. Maybe his window is closing—do you want to marry me, Enj?”

 

Enjolras sucks in a sharp breath.

 

“I’m kidding,” Feuilly says quickly. “You’ve got. You know, you’ve got a ‘thing’ or whatever with Grantaire. Marrying me will just fuck up what you guys have going.”

 

“Feuilly, I’m sorry,” Enjolras murmurs. “I wish there was a way I could help you. Maybe we can fundraise? We’ve made large sums of money out of our fundraisers before, and I know everyone else would be more than willing to help—”

 

A spark of anger flares rapidly in Feuilly’s chest. “I don’t need fucking charity,” he snaps irrationally. “I’m not a _project_.”

 

There’s a beat of silence.

 

“I never said you were,” Enjolras says finally.

 

Okay, wow, Feuilly’s kind of an asshole.

 

Feuilly screws his eyes shut and takes a deep breath. He wants to pull his hair out, he’s so frustrated and mad for no reason. He’s snapping at his friends and it’s unfair of him to push his problems onto them when he’s the one who’s got to figure out where to go for him.

 

He was in fucking _foster care_ with Enjolras. He’s _never_ snapped at him before. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Feuilly mutters. “I just don’t know what to do.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t respond for a minute; there’s noises of shuffling and then finally— “No, it’s fine, I get it. It was kind of cool to finally be on the receiving end of your temper for once. Now I get why people are scared of you.”

 

“You saying you weren’t scared of me before?”

 

“Feuilly, you’re a lot shorter than me and you wear flannels that look like they’re drowning you every day. In fact, I’m almost certain you’re wearing a flannel today as well.”

 

Sure enough, Feuilly glances down at the too-large flannel encompassing his body, partially hidden currently by a jacket. He narrows his eyes. “I’ve got this whole sexy lumberjack aesthetic I’m trying to maintain,” he retorts. “Plus, Ép picked this one out for me when we went shopping for our matching gay flannels.”

 

“Sure, Feu,” Enjolras agrees.

 

“Fuck off,” Feuilly laughs. “I retract the crush I used to have on you. That’s done and over with.”

 

Enjolras makes a strangled sort of sound and it just makes Feuilly laugh again. He’s not crying anymore. It’s something he’s always admired about Enjolras, the ability he has to make anything easier to bear for a little while. Feuilly knows Enjolras was only trying to help, he knows he got irrationally angry at Enjolras for just being a good friend.

 

“Thanks for the offer,” Feuilly says, before he loses the nerve. “Of the fundraising and shit. I’ll—I’ll think about it, okay?”

 

“Feu, you said something about texting Bahorel? Did you ask him to marry you, too?”

 

Feuilly scowls. “It was a joke. Mostly.”

 

“Feuilly.”

 

“Don’t lecture me,” he whines. “I know my big stupid crush is obnoxious. But this is Baz we’re talking about—he’ll see it as a joke. Plus, you joke about marrying Grantaire all the damn time so shut right the fuck up.”

 

Enjolras splutters indignantly. “That’s _different_ —” he retorts. “That’s not the same thing!”

 

“It’s not much different,” Feuilly mutters.

 

“ _Feuilly_!”

 

Feuilly rolls his eyes. “It’s fine! It was a joke. He’ll see it as a joke. I know you’re worried about me, but you don’t have to worry. I’m good, I can take care of myself. For the most part, anyway, as long as it’s not financial—”

 

Enjolras cuts him off. “Please let me know what you decide, about letting us help you. I’m not the only one who worries about you. You work harder than the lot of us combined, any one of us would gladly drop anything to help you. I know you said you’d think about it, just. _Actually_ think about it, okay?”

 

“I will. And I’ve got to go now, sorry,” Feuilly says quickly. He really does need to get going—he wants his bed and his sweatpants and he mostly wants to be as far away from this campus as possible. “Thank you, Enj. For caring and shit.”

 

“Anytime.”

 

Feuilly disconnects the call.

 

For a second, he just sits there on his bench and stares down at his phone and wonders whether or not he has the energy to even stand up. He contemplates not moving at all and instead claiming this bench for his own once he becomes homeless since he won’t have enough schooling to get a proper job. _That’s_ a depressing thought, though, and it’s luckily enough to kick Feuilly’s ass off the bench to start his walk back home.

 

He doesn’t live too far, thank god. He made it a priority to get a place close to the campus for this reason—the less money he has to spend on transportation, the better. Today however, it’s a burden. The long walk leaves him alone with just his thoughts, a constant cycle going between how to get himself out of this financial situation and how to get Bahorel out of his head all the damn time. School, Bahorel, school, Bahorel—somehow inexplicably intertwined, and always at the forefront of Feuilly’s thoughts.

 

His phone buzzes with a response from Bahorel as he reaches the outside of his apartment complex.

 

**From: Baz**

[5:11] at least put out first

 

Feuilly rolls his eyes. Leave it to his best friend to turn Feuilly's impending meltdown into a crude joke. If he wasn't so annoyingly attached to Bahorel, he'd probably, like, beat the hell out of him or something.

 

**To: Baz**

[5:12] don't be an asshole.

 

He gets a text back almost immediately.

 

**From: Baz**

[5:12] sorry. i'm sorry. what's going on feu?

 

Feuilly doesn't reply, instead pocketing his phone as he climbs up the stairs to the apartment he shares with Bahorel. He figures he can just respond after he has a second to relax. Or after he takes a shot or ten, he hasn't decided yet.

 

His key sticks in the lock, like usual, and it's just another thing on top of his horrible day. Feuilly swings the door open and drops his messenger back noisily on the ground. There's a bottle of tequila buried behind some fancy plates that has his name on it--

 

Bahorel is in the kitchen, and the bottle of tequila is on the counter in front of him.

 

"Perfect," Feuilly says. "We're on the same page. Great. Pour me a shot. Or eight."

 

Bahorel is already reaching for another shot glass out of the cupboard. "Get the limes out of the fridge? Salt's already on the counter."

 

"We have limes?" Feuilly mutters. He lets out a victorious cry when he sees the lines sitting in the refrigerator next to half empty cartons of Chinese food. He pulls them out and dumps them unceremoniously on the counter. Bahorel has two shot glasses ready to go and a knife to start cutting the limes.

 

"Had a gut feeling you'd need this today," Bahorel's muttering. Feuilly whines and makes grabbing motions at the shot glass. "What's wrong?"

 

Feuilly shakes his head. "Nope. Tequila first. _Lots_ of tequila first."

 

Bahorel hands him the shot glass.

 

 

Salt. Tequila. Lime.

 

 

It's a routine Feuilly is all too familiar with, and after a day like today he _needs_ a routine. The tequila is a harsh burn but it works it's magic almost immediately. Feuilly is in love.

 

"Another," he says, and Bahorel obliges.

 

Three shots later, they're both entirely wasted and crashed on the couch in a pile of entangled limbs. "God, I love tequila," Bahorel shouts. Feuilly jumps.

 

"Tequila makes you horny," he retorts, because he's a jackass and he has no filter when he's drunk. But it's true, a fact Feuilly knows about Bahorel far too well after seeing him take a shot then woo somebody on the dance floor. He frowns. He should have kept that thought to himself.

 

" _You're_ horny," Bahorel says childishly. Which, okay, isn't untrue; but it's got less to do with the tequila and more to do with the fact that his legs are kind of wrapped around Bahorel's thigh and every time Baz moves, it brushes against Feuilly's dick. Not the tequila's fault at all.

 

"Fuck off, I'm drunk and I want cuddles," Feuilly whines. He presses his nose into Bahorel's collarbone. "You smell like shit."

 

Bahorel pats one of Feuilly's thighs. The bastard. "I know," he agrees. "We should order a pizza. Or two. I'm starving. We could eat two pizzas."

 

Feuilly shakes his head, but he's pretty sure it comes across more as him just rubbing his face into Bahorel'a chest. He feels lame. "No," he finally manages to grit out. He shook his head too much and now he's dizzy. "We have takeout in the fridge we need to get rid of."

 

Bahorel lets out a long whine. "But I want pizza!"

 

"Baz," Feuilly warns. Bahorel's shifting relentlessly as he tries to find his phone to order a pizza, and Feuilly is running out of patience. " _Bahorel_."

 

"It's just two pizzas," Bahorel insists. He bats his eyes at Feuilly, all wide eyed and pleading and it's far too fucking cute and usually it would work but Feuilly is way too pissed off at this point, furious out of nowhere and bursting with energy.

 

His anger comes out of nowhere, white and hot, and it bursts out before he can even consider containing it.

 

"I fucking said no, asshole!" he shouts. "I can't even fucking afford to go to school anymore, I don't want to waste my goddamn money on pizza when we have food that we already spent money on in the fridge!"

 

Bahorel sucks in a sharp breath. His eyes are still wide but it's drastically different from the innocent gaze he'd been playing earlier to get what he wanted. Feuilly’s heart is pounding. Begrudgingly, he untangles himself from Bahorel.

 

"I can't afford to go to school next semester," Feuilly mutters. He's cold, now that's he's not wrapped around Bahorel and his warmth. The heat of the tequila is gone now, too, and it's far too early in the night for him to start sobering up.

 

Bahorel sits up quickly. "Feu, what are you talking about?" he demands.

 

Feuilly sighs and shakes his head pathetically. "The fourth job I picked up pushed me out of the aid bracket I was in, so first of all I've lost over half of the financial aid I'd been using to pay for college. I can't afford to take out student loans because I haven't built my credit enough. And it's too late for me to apply for scholarships. Outside of unsubsidized loans, I don't have very many options."

 

It's quiet for a minute, too long, and the silence gets to Feuilly's head. He stands quickly, muttering about grabbing another shot and retreating hastily to the kitchen. He's only just finished cutting another lime when Bahorel appears in the doorway. "Is that why you asked me to marry you earlier?" Bahorel asks, no preamble.

 

Feuilly fumbles with the knife.

 

"That was a joke," he mutters.

 

"Okay, but what if I'm not joking?" Bahorel insists.

 

This time Feuilly does drop the knife.

 

"Okay, what?"

 

Bahorel shrugs. There's a look on his face, something indescribable and unfamiliar and undeniably hopeful. It makes Feuilly's heart clench. "I need the financial aid, too. Plus, I'm applying to law school soon and that shit is expensive. Claiming a spouse on my application would actually help out a lot. Just like. I'm open to it, okay? Marriage, or whatever."

 

Feuilly blinks. "Are you serious?"

 

Bahorel shrugs. "Dead serious."

 

Feuilly pours them each another shot. "We need more alcohol."

 

They do a few more shots than Feuilly had intended.

 

Feuilly might lose count.

 

"I mean, we're not seriously considering this, are we?!" Feuilly bursts out. They're collapsed on the fire escape now, still somehow hopelessly intertwined around each other. "Marriage is like a big deal. It's _marriage_."

 

"It's a mutual agreement that two adults consent to enter," Bahorel states. "It's a legal arrangement with benefits to both parties."

 

“It's _marriage_ , Baz, you don't have to get all lawyer-y on me," mutters Feuilly. There's a slight chill, surprising in the summer air and Feuilly shivers unintentionally. Bahorel pulls him closer and holds him tighter.

 

“Okay, Feu,” Bahorel says. “I’m serious about this. It’s beneficial to both of us. It’s something we both are okay with. We already live together so we don’t have to worry about that. It’s a good idea. _And_ you brought it up. Maybe you were joking but I’m being dead fucking serious. Let’s get married.”

 

Feuilly scoffs. _Fuck_ being warm at this point, he pulls away from Bahorel and moves over to sit at the foot of the stairs. “Don’t be an asshole,” he murmurs. It’s practically him begging, though he’d never admit to it. There are times when he thinks that marrying Bahorel is all he wants to do, and this is a cruel joke from the universe.

 

Feuilly’s been lying to himself for fucking ages at this point, he already knows that. He’s obnoxiously in love with Bahorel, probably has been for half his damn life at this point. He’s dreamt about marrying him at least a thousand times, imagined their engagement story just as often—

 

Bahorel sits up too, looking at Feuilly honestly and openly and with honest-to-god _hope_ in his eyes. With Feuilly crouched on the stairs and Bahorel knelt at the bottom, with Bahorel staring at him with this indescribable look—it’s almost too close to every scenario Feuilly had ever imagined. “I’ll even do it like a proper fucking proposal,” Bahorel insists. He reaches up and tugs the necklace out from underneath his shirt, a simple chain with Bahorel’s ring.

  
Feuilly knows the story behind that ring. He’s heard it at least a dozen times from Bahorel. He knows its story as well as he knows the story behind his own old family heirloom.

 

He tries to breathe through the panic bubbling in his chest when Bahorel takes the ring off the chain and holds it out gingerly to Feuilly. “Let’s fucking do this. Please, Feuilly, let me help you out. You’re my best friend, I’d _literally_ kill someone for you. And it’s killing me that you’re struggling like this, because if anyone deserves to go to school, it’s you. This is how I can help you so _let me_. Let’s get married. Feu? Will you marry me?”

 

Bahorel fucking _holds the ring out_ , and he still looks so damn hopeful and Feuilly’s deluding himself if he honestly things he could actually say no to Bahorel. He’s been deluding himself for far too long already, pretending like he wasn’t in love with his best friend in the entire world and convincing himself he wasn’t a goddamn trope. Yet, here he is about to entire a fake marriage which is _literally_ straight out of the romantic comedies Bahorel watches religiously. His life is a _joke_ , and Feuilly thinks that this is his fucking payback for making a joke out of marriage in the first place.

 

Who is he kidding?

 

He wants to marry Bahorel desperately. _And_ this proposal was basically everything he’d ever imagined. Even if he pictured Bahorel being, like, a hundred percent more in love with him.

 

 _Fuck it,_ Feuilly decides.

 

“Yes,” he says quickly, and Bahorel’s face splits into this adorable fucking grin from ear to ear. They’re hugging, Feuilly isn’t sure when they started hugging but he enjoys it nonetheless. He thinks he might be laughing half-hysterically again. This whole thing feels surreal, like something straight out of a dream. He’s drunk, he remembers a beat too late, and maybe he’ll regret this in the morning.

 

But Bahorel is actually slipping a ring onto Feuilly’s finger like this is an actual official thing and Feuilly is pretty sure his heart might _actually_ beat out of his chest. He’s almost obnoxiously giddy at how perfect the ring fits right away. It looks like it fucking belongs there.

 

Feuilly’s getting _married_.

 

Jesus.

 

There’s an awkward beat where Feuilly and Bahorel just look at each other, wondering where to go next. Almost subconsciously, Feuilly’s leaning forward again. Bahorel’s got this _gravity_ , this ability to constantly draw Feuilly in regardless of if they’re across the room from each other or right next to each other. Bahorel’s leaning forward too. Feuilly wonders if Baz is going to kiss him, out here on the fire escape with tequila coursing through their veins and the Paris air surrounding them. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d let the tequila influence them to do something. That’s even outside of their impromptu engagement. They’re a breath’s width apart and Feuilly’s heart is still pounding and his eyes are fluttering closed. Then—

 

“So, should we like… Kiss, or some shit? Make it official?”

 

Feuilly smacks his arm.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Enjolras is already judging him.

 

He’s literally _just_ walked into the coffee shop and already he can feel Enjolras’s gaze on him, narrowed eyes and set mouth and _judging_. Feuilly scowls. Enjolras is going to yell at him. He and Bahorel are getting married at the end of the week hopefully, and they weren’t going to tell anyone _except_ for Enjolras, and Enjolras is judging him.

 

Grantaire’s also there. They’re holding hands and Enjolras is frowning and Grantaire just looks confused. Grantaire was not part of the plan.

 

Feuilly puts his hands in his pocket to hide the ring.

 

“Hey,” he says casually as he sits down across from them. Enjolras just keeps looking at him and Grantaire smiles, completely oblivious. Feuilly clears his throat. “So, what’s up?”

 

“You’ve done something,” Enjolras announces. Feuilly jumps. Enjolras leans forward—Grantaire just looks back and forth between the pair of them with a confused look on his face. “What did you do? Dammit, _what did you and Bahorel do_?”

 

Feuilly panics. “Uh—nothing?”

 

Grantaire turns to him. “Oh my god,” he says. “Did you guys have sex again? How many times can you guys fuck before you realize it’s not a ‘friends with benefits’ thing?”

 

“ _Again_?!” Enjolras nearly shouts. Feuilly keeps panicking.

 

“Jesus Christ, R,” Feuilly hisses. He covers his face in a poor attempt to hide his embarrassment. “First of all, _no_ , we didn’t have sex. Second of all, _fuck off_. And third of all, you asshole, that wasn’t public knowledge but thanks for sharing the intimate details of my sex life with the entire café.”

 

“I’m sorry—” Grantaire starts, but he stops abruptly.

 

No one says a word.

 

Feuilly realizes his mistake a second too late, and then Grantaire is _actually shouting_ , “Is that a wedding ring?!”

 

Feuilly wants to die. He wants to die right here in this coffee shop before he’s even had a chance to properly live, he wants to have a heart attack and just die on the floor and melt and never speak again. Why didn’t he take off the ring before he came? It’s _stupid_ , after all, and it’s not _real_ , so his wearing the ring just feels like a pitiful attempt to make it seem more legitimate.

 

Enjolras still hasn’t moved from his shock-frozen state since Grantaire announced the details of Feuilly’s sex life. Feuilly drops his hands into his lap quickly but Enjolras’s gaze drops with it. For a minute, Feuilly is sure none of them are breathing.

 

“Um. Yes?” Feuilly says weakly.

 

Grantaire screams.

 

Enjolras doesn’t say anything.

 

“Enj?” Feuilly murmurs. His heart is going to pound out of his chest. Enjolras is his best friend outside of Bahorel, his most trusted confident, the one person who's reaction mattered out of this whole affair. Enjolras raises his gaze to Feuilly’s.

 

“To Bahorel?” he asks. He’s the perfect picture of calm.

 

Not including the fact that the way he’s clutching onto Grantaire’s hand with a pale-knuckled grip—it’s the one thing that gives him away.

 

Feuilly swallows. “Yes.”

 

“Holy _shit_ ,” Grantaire breathes. He squirms a little but seems otherwise unbothered by the way Enjolras is squeezing his hand tightly. “How did that happen?”

 

So, Feuilly explains the whole thing. Starts at the top, at the very beginning with his horrible excuse of a joke, all the way down to shots not counted and a proposal that still makes Feuilly breathless. He fiddles with the ring on his hand as he talks. By the end, he realizes he’s been unable to keep the smile off his face and he couldn’t get rid of it now if he tried. Grantaire blinks, and Enjolras just keeps looking at him.

 

“Cool,” Grantaire says. “So how long have you been in love with him?”

 

Feuilly splutters indignantly.

 

“Are you kidding?” he manages to say, after a minute. “It took you _years_ to realize that Enjolras was pining for you just as bad as you were for him, but it doesn’t even take you five minutes to figure out—to notice— Oh god, am I really that obvious?”

 

That’s what finally gets Enjolras to speak up. “Feuilly, are you sure this is a good idea?” he demands. He looks concerned, frayed at the edge and full of contained anger that Feuilly knows he deserves. Feuilly bites his lip.

 

“Oh, don’t listen to him,” interrupts Grantaire. He rolls his eyes. “Enj is probably just mad because you didn’t ask _him_ to marry you.”

 

Enjolras glares, and Feuilly cracks a smile.

 

“I’m just _worried_ , is all,” he mutters.

 

Feuilly’s heart swells with affection for his friends. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” Feuilly says honestly. “But I’m willing to give it a chance. He’s—he’s my best friend. And this is helping both of us out. And it’s not like anything is changing. We already live together, we already spend a lot of our time together, we were basically married before except without the legality and, of course, the requited feelings. I don’t really have another option, school-wise.”

 

Grantaire and Enjolras share a look.

 

“There’s some part of you that’s hoping it will all work out, though. Isn’t there?” Enjolras asks. His voice is soft—gone is the anger and frustration from before, replaced entirely with worry. Feuilly can’t quite meet his gaze.

 

He shrugs. “Well, sure,” he says easily. He picks at the peeling linoleum on the café table while he talks. “You always kind of hope it will, don’t you? I mean. This is rom-com typical plot. The fake marriage, the years of pining, the all-knowing friends. I’m a goddamn walking trope. But—I can’t _not_. I _have_ to go through with this. Financially, for school, yes. But also because it’s _Baz_ , and I trust him and it’s an opportunity I’m scared I won’t get otherwise.”

 

Grantaire lets go of Enjolras’s hand and reaches forward to place his over Feuilly’s. It startles Feuilly, honestly, enough to make him stop picking at the linoleum and raise his gaze to Grantaire. “I hope it works out for you guys,” he says, the picture of sincerity. Had it come from anyone else, Feuilly is sure he wouldn’t have believed them. But he watched Grantaire pine for _years_ and somehow end up with his happy ending. Grantaire wishing the same on anyone else has to come from the heart, has to come from a place of utmost happiness that bursts at the seams and demands to be felt by everyone else. Feuilly smiles.

 

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

 

Enjolras actually cracks a smile. It’s more than Feuilly expected, honestly. “Can I be the best man?”

 

And it’s the feeling Feuilly had been waiting on, the knowledge that Enjolras supported him and understood where he was coming from even if he didn’t agree. Feuilly lets out a breath he’s fairly sure he’d been holding since he walked into the café and grins at Enjolras and Grantaire.

 

He’s getting _married_.

 

He pulls out his phone later, when Grantaire stands to refill their coffees and Enjolras slips into the bathroom. He’s still smiling, unable to stop now.

 

**To: Baz**

[11:59] r and enj approve. they want to be the best men

 

**From: Baz**

[11:59] cool shit. i guess u didn’t tell them we weren’t having a ~ceremony~ ?

 

**To: Baz**

[12:00] they still want to be there if that’s cool?

 

Grantaire comes back before Bahorel responds, and Feuilly pockets his phone and accepts the coffee Grantaire hands him with a thankful smile. Grantaire smirks back at him. “For what it’s worth, I was pretty sure you two had feelings for each other ever since you told me about the night you hooked up, so. Maybe you weren’t _obvious_ , but you surely aren’t subtle.”

 

Feuilly blushes to the roots of his hair.

 

“At least he didn’t create an entire art collection inspired by the way Bahorel’s hair looks in different lightings,” pipes in Enjolras as he returns, and he kisses Grantaire’s forehead as he slides back down into his seat. Grantaire clears his throat pointedly and looks out the window. Feuilly’s grinning smugly but it dies quickly when Enjolras turns back to him. “Don’t be so smug; you _never_ told me about your hook-up and I’m demanding the story now.”

 

Feuilly splutters again.

 

It’s nice for a while after that, just catching up with Enjolras and Grantaire and teasing them relentlessly about their newfound relationship. They don’t talk about college, or money, or Feuilly’s marriage outside of a few quick questions and a teasing remark. It’s the break Feuilly needed without realizing it. There are days that go by where he’s unable to see his friends, too busy and caught between his four jobs or school. Days that go by without this easiness, the happiness and the joking around that comes with spending time with his best friends. He _misses_ it, without even _realizing_ it half the times. It was times like this that helped him realize he even had feelings for Bahorel all along.

 

There’s two texts on his phone from Bahorel when he looks at it later, finally leaving the café.

 

**From: Baz**

[12:20] i mean i don’t mind if they’re there but everyone else might be pissed. maybe we could have a party afterwards? not like a reception. just a ‘HEY WE GOT HITCHED COME DRINK WITH US’ kind of thing where we explain the situation to everyone and hopefully avoid getting murdered by some of our friends?

[12:29] lets apply for the certificate today then get married on Friday?

 

Feuilly’s heart skips a beat or five, he isn’t quite sure. But he smiles from ear to ear without being quite able to stop it nonetheless. He isn’t even worried with the fact that this could be a bad idea. He’s marrying _Bahorel_ and it’s happening _soon_ and he’s ridiculously happy now. He’s not sure anything could take away from that. Maybe one day, he and Bahorel will get their real happy ending. He’d wait for the rest of his life if he had to.

 

**To: Baz**

[12:43] sounds great

 

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, it’s Enjolras who convinces them that they have to tell the rest of their friends before they get married.

 

“Imagine finding out that Courfeyrac and Combeferre had just fucked off and gotten married without telling any of us,” Enjolras tells them earnestly. “You’d want to know, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Courfeyrac would never settle for anything less than a big wedding, but you can’t even deny that Ferre is the kind of asshole who would get married in secret just because he knew it would shock all of us,” Bahorel retorts. He’s speaking around a mouthful of cupcake. It shouldn’t be attractive, but Feuilly always does things he’s not supposed to and finds it obnoxiously hot. He scowls a bit and looks away before he does something stupid.

 

Enjolras glares at him. “My point still _stands_. You’d be upset. There’s a meeting tonight, you can just tell everyone there. I get that not everyone can come but it’s going to be better than shooting out a text afterwards and having to explain it that way.”

 

Feuilly pokes at Bahorel’s leg and dodges Baz’s arm when he tries to throw it over Feuilly’s shoulders. “He’s got a point,” Feuilly admits. “Maybe we can get them to give us presents, too. Newlywed gifts and shit.”

 

Bahorel grins. “Ooh, I like that.”

 

“Don’t be assholes,” Enjolras advises. He looks exasperated—honestly, after all these years of knowing both Feuilly and Bahorel, he shouldn’t be surprised. “But you’ll tell them tonight?”

 

They both shrug noncommittally.

 

But of course, they show up that night sporting wedding rings on their left hands and holding the marriage certificate that will allow them to officially tie the knot on Friday. Grantaire just smirks and laughs but otherwise doesn’t say a thing about the obvious stir they’re about to cause. They keep to themselves at the meeting. Feuilly hides the certificate in between the flyers he’s holding onto, and Bahorel makes a nuisance of himself tapping on the table and trying to draw attention to his hand. Enjolras pretends like he doesn’t notice at all.

 

This goes on for far too long.

 

Honestly, it surprises Feuilly that no one notices. It took Grantaire a grand total of thirty seconds to pick up on it, and Feuilly had been trying to hide it them. It sparks curiosity.

 

Feuilly slams his beer down noisily on the table. When three pairs of eyes dart up to him, Feuilly hastily withdraws his hand.

 

Éponine sucks in a sharp breath.

 

Feuilly almost grins in victory—he manages to keep his expression neutral as everyone else slowly turns to look at him.

 

“Bastard,” Bahorel murmurs under his breath, and Feuilly can’t keep his grin hidden anymore.

 

“Boys,” Éponine states. She raises an immaculate eyebrow—she’s eerily calm. Feuilly is kind of terrified of her. “Is there something you want to share with the class?”

 

Bahorel clears his throat loudly and elbows Feuilly. They’re _assholes_ , Feu knows this. He pulls the certificate out of the stack of flyers and slides it easily across the table. Several gazes follow it in shock. “Bahorel and I are getting married. Oh, on Friday.”

 

Shockingly, Marius is the first one to say something. “Wait. _What_?”

 

Then chaos erupts.

 

Bahorel and Feuilly sit there in shocked silence as everyone begins throwing questions at them. They can barely focus on one voice, all of them jumbled together as all of their friends demand answers. Finally, Bahorel raises both of his hands and all of the voices stop. It’s impressive and incredible and Feuilly loves him.

 

Feuilly’s stupid crush is really getting in the way of _basically_ everything.

 

“Okay, whoa,” Bahorel says with a laugh. Feuilly’s heart clenches. “Here’s the deal. Feuilly’s school is telling them they can’t give him any more money unless he has a kid, turns twenty-four, or gets hitched. And, law school is really fucking expensive. So, two birds, one stone; we’re tying the knot and making the best out of a bad situation.”

 

No one says anything.

 

“Plus, you can’t deny the chemistry between Baz and I,” Feuilly jokes. As soon as he says it, he wants to swallow his own tongue and never speak again. Everyone—including Bahorel—turns to look at him in surprise. “I mean, it was only a matter of time. Bahorel just can’t keep his hands to himself.”

 

Bahorel scoffs. “You’re projecting, buddy,” he teases back. “ _I’m_ the irresistible one.”

 

Feuilly just smiles stupidly at him.

 

Bossuet clears his throat. “I think. I’m speaking for the whole group here when I say that it just seems a bit sudden. I mean, of all of the couples in our group of friends, none of us have gotten married yet. The two of you aren’t even dating but you’re still the first to do it? It’s just a bit a surprise.”

 

“Unless you two _are_ dating and failed to mention it to any of us,” Courfeyrac pipes up. He looks quizzically at the both of them. “That would explain a lot.”

 

Feuilly coughs pointedly to hide the panic threatening to spill over. Bahorel, thank god, doesn’t seem to notice Feuilly’s impending meltdown. “We know it’s a surprise,” Bahorel says. “But nothing is changing, if you think about it. I’ll just be calling Feuilly my husband instead of my best friend.”

 

Fuck. _Fuck_. Feuilly thinks he might be having a heart attack now, and he’s struggling to keep his head above it all. Bahorel’s words are ringing in his ears; he called Feuilly his _husband_. God, of all the things Feuilly expected to have to deal with, Bahorel casually throwing around that term wasn’t one of them. He’s not breathing right.

 

He realizes everyone is looking at him and waiting for him to say something. He opens his mouth. “Uh,” he finally says. “Yeah. Besides, this isn’t forever. It’s just a temporary arrangement.”

 

Even if Feuilly doesn’t want it to be. He keeps that thought to himself, though.

 

Bahorel falls strangely silent.

 

“Well,” Musichetta says at last. She crosses her arms. “Congratulations. I’m guessing you guys aren’t doing a whole ceremony, but I hope you aren’t deluding yourselves into thinking you’ll get away with not having a reception.”

 

“It’s not a real ceremony,” Feuilly protests.

 

“We just wanted to have a small get-together, not make a big deal out of it,” argues Bahorel.

 

She cocks an eyebrow at them and they both fall silent. “We’re having a reception. Here, Friday night. You two don’t have to come in tuxes. But for god’s sake, Feuilly, if you show up in a flannel I will tear it off of you and burn it in the oven.”

 

Feuilly opens and closes his mouth twice. He looks down at the flannel he’s wearing today and scowls, but says, “Fine.”

 

Enjolras pipes up, “I’m not taking them to the courthouse unless they’re dressed nicely. Since we’re making them have an actual reception, everyone else needs to dress nicely too. I think we’re in agreement when we say that Feuilly and Bahorel don’t get to be involved in the planning at all?”

 

“Agreed,” everyone says in unison. It’s kind of scary. Feuilly groans.

 

Bahorel puts his arm around Feuilly’s shoulders and pulls him close. “Aww, babe, don’t be so sad. We’ll let them do all the work and we’ll just enjoy the party. All we’re doing is signing a piece of paper.”

 

Feuilly swallows thickly and tries to pretend that he’s not dying at the casual contact or the pet name. _Get used to this_ , he thinks. _This is your life now. Your life with your husband_.

 

Yeah, Feuilly’s fairly certain he isn’t going to survive this at all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Friday is a sunny day.

 

Perfect for a wedding.

 

Feuilly’s hands are shaking as he does up the buttons on his dress shirt. He’s already changed it three times, rotating between shirt after shirt. He’d finally settled on a grey button up after Grantaire chucked it at him and told him it complimented his eyes or some kind of shit.

 

“I found a fucking tie!” Grantaire shouts. He’s laying on the ground of Feuilly’s closet, arm lazily pointing in the air. “You need to organize this. It’s a mess in here. I’m going to tell Enjolras you’re messy and he’s going to have a damn heart attack when he finds out.”

 

Feuilly snorts. “Hey, why _did_ Enjolras go to help Bahorel, anyway?”

 

Grantaire lifts his head, just a bit, and flips Feuilly off. “Are you saying you don’t appreciate my company? Asshole. He wanted to give Bahorel _the talk_ or whatever. Scare him into treating you right and all this shit. Don’t be too scared, though—he promised he had the best intentions.”

 

Feuilly pauses and raises his eyebrow. “Okay,” he drawls.

 

“Ugh,” whines Grantaire. He sits up, plucks a tie off of a hanger, and throws it towards Feuilly. “I knew that shirt would look good. Don’t you have better pants, though? What about the pants you wore to Gavroche’s play? I’m a taken man but _damn_ they made your ass look great.”

 

It makes Feuilly flush nearly from head to toe. He laughs purely because he’s not quite sure what else to do. But he trusts Grantaire, and he _does_ want to look good on his wedding day. He’s pretty sure his pants are in his dresser.

 

His phone dings loudly. He lunges at it—but, like, with dignity. Grantaire laughs at him from his spot on the floor. Feuilly wants to stick his tongue out at him but he has _maturity_.

 

**From: Baz**

[10:16] dude we’re getting married in like less than two hours and enjy is being an ASSHOLE why did we decide to invite them anyway

 

“You literally just _giggled_ ,” Grantaire says. He’s still snickering and Feuilly would hate him a little bit except that it’s his wedding day. “Sappy bastard.”

 

“Fuck off,” whistles Feuilly cheerfully.

 

**To: Baz**

[10:17] it’s not too late to ditch them all and run off to vegas to elope

 

Grantaire gasps dramatically, drawing back Feuilly’s attention. “I hope you two aren’t planning on running away on us.”

 

Feuilly narrows his eyes. “Sometimes, I’m really afraid you’re psychic,” he admits.

 

“I’d tease you about your weird sex fantasies but honestly, I think you’d be more embarrassed about your awfully domestic settled-down fantasies.” Grantaire is grinning at him from down on the ground. He winks at Feuilly.

 

Feuilly just stares at him, scandalized. “You _are_ psychic,” he whispers to himself before turning his attention back to his phone.

 

**From: Baz**

[10:17] it’s a bit too late. chetta would skin us alive if we ran now

 

“You’re lucky Musichetta is the one person on this earth Bahorel is scared of,” Feuilly tells Grantaire. “Otherwise, we’d be making a run for it right now and you’d be screwed. Get up, we need to leave soon and you’re still in a hoodie.”

 

Grantaire starts grumbling in annoyance. Feuilly’s pretty sure he hears him murmur, “I’ll wear a damn hoodie to my funeral, thanks.”

 

Feuilly bites his lip and keeps his retort to himself. He’s got to finish getting ready, after all.

 

 

 

In the end, they both clean up pretty well.

 

Feuilly still is skeptical about his whole outfit, even though Grantaire repeatedly tells him that he looks incredible. Feuilly doesn’t give Grantaire enough credit, he realizes—for all Grantaire is the resident cynic of their little group, he’s as great friend and a wonderful person to have right before shit hits the fan. Feuilly’s a ball of stress that’s practically unraveling. Grantaire handles his stress with grace and ease and corrals him out of his apartment with all his clothes on and documents in order.

 

Grantaire even _combed_ his hair.

 

Feuilly is pretty sure Enjolras is going to have a heart attack when he lays his eyes on Grantaire.

 

He says as much to Grantaire, as he’s closing the door behind him and locking it. Grantaire swallows and laughs and tries to bat him away, but Feuilly repeats himself. “I’m _serious_. You look good, man. And you got me on my way looking like I’m actually put together and shit. It’s impressive. _Thank you_.”

 

Feuilly grabs him and yanks him into a hug before he can dodge it. Grantaire groans in his ear but after a minute returns the hug. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters. “Don’t tell anyone I actually have my shit together, though.”

 

“Sure thing, man,” Feuilly says with a laugh. He squeezes Grantaire’s shoulder as they let go and smiles at him. “Let’s go get me married.”

 

Grantaire grins lazily back. “Let’s go get you married.”

 

It’s a sunny day.

 

And Feuilly is getting married to his best friend.

 

They take a cab. Bahorel and Enjolras are meeting them at the courthouse, coming straight from Enjolras’s apartment. Feuilly pretends he isn’t nervous; Grantaire must notice the way Feuilly’s leg is shaking in anticipation because he reaches over to place his hand on his knee.

 

He shoots off another text to Bahorel.

 

**To: Baz**

[10:42] still think it’s stupid that enj and r wanted us not to see each other until the courthouse

[10:42] i didn’t realize they were so superstitious and attached to heteronormative traditions

 

**From: Baz**

[10:43] so you’re nervous too?

 

Feuilly lets out the breath he’d been holding. Grantaire turns to look at him, alarmed, but Feuilly is smiling. There’s a reason Bahorel is his best friend, and it’s this—his ability to reassure Feuilly even when his nerves are spiraling out of control, his ability to make Feuilly smile no matter what the circumstances.

 

“I can do this, right?” Feuilly asks. He grabs blindly at Grantaire’s hand.

 

Grantaire squeezes back, because he’s a godsend. “You can do this,” he reassures.

 

He’s gonna do this.

 

 

 

Bahorel looks stunning in the sunlight.

 

He and Enjolras are standing outside the courthouse waiting. Enjolras makes this wounded sound when Grantaire gets out of the car, and he grabs at him and kisses him messily while Grantaire laughs and embraces him back. Feuilly has a brief thought that this is the most he’s heard Grantaire laugh in quite some time. It’s a brief thought, though, mostly because of the way Bahorel sucks in a sharp breath as Feuilly climbs out of the cab as well. When he looks up, Bahorel’s gaze is raking him up and down. Feuilly almost feels self-conscious before he decides this was the plan all along. After all, he _does_ look good. And it _is_ his wedding day.

 

“Wow,” Bahorel says. Then he smiles. “Good to know I’ve got myself a husband who knows how to clean himself up. I almost didn’t recognize you without a flannel on.”

 

Feuilly rolls his eyes. “Fuck off,” he retorts. “I was going to tell you that you looked pretty damn good yourself, but now you’re being an asshole so I’ll take it back. You better watch yourself, too, I could still run.”

 

Bahorel gasps, overdramatic as always. Feuilly’s _in love_ with him. “And leave me at the _alter_?” he drawls. He presses a hand over his heart. “Why, Feuilly, you wouldn’t _dare_.”

 

“You two are so obnoxious, do you realize you’re arguing on your wedding day?” Enjolras whines. His arms are still wrapped around Grantaire and he’s smiling brightly at them. “It’s cute that you guys color-coordinated, though. Was that planned?”

 

It’s something Feuilly hadn’t even noticed, but now it seems obvious. While he himself had gone with the grey button up and navy suit, Bahorel was mirroring him in a grey suit and a navy tie. It was kind of ridiculous how well they actually matched up and it did something to Feuilly’s heart that he didn’t quite know how to describe. It’s cute as fuck. Feuilly can’t really keep the smile off his face. When he looks at Bahorel, he’s relieved to see Bahorel smiling broadly back.

 

“Alright, well,” Grantaire says after a minute. “We’ve got to go get them married now.”

 

Feuilly’s heart is going to pound out of his chest.

 

By some small miracle, or by the grace of god, or just because he’s a saint, Bahorel reaches out and grasps Feuilly’s hand in his own. The touch centers him instantly, brings him back to earth and lights his chest up in fireworks spontaneously. Feuilly swallows thickly.

 

“I’m nervous,” he admits, under his breath. Bahorel squeezes his hand and begins to lead him inside the courthouse.

 

“I know,” Bahorel murmurs back, reassuring as ever. He is Feuilly’s rock, through and through. “I’m nervous, too. But we can do this. We _can_.”

 

They can.

 

And they do.

 

It’s a simple affair.

 

The judge takes the marriage certificate from them and then they begin. There’s not much ado; she has Bahorel and Feuilly face each other and they continue to cling to each other’s hands. Feuilly thinks he might sink into the ground if it weren’t for the foreign and comforting weight of Bahorel’s hand in his.

 

They say ‘I do’.

 

Then the judge says, “Would you gentlemen like to exchange vows?”

 

Feuilly hadn’t prepared for this part.

 

“Yes,” he blurts out. If Bahorel goes first, Feuilly is certain his heart will give out. There’ll be nothing stopping him from bearing his heart on the line and bursting out the truth of his feelings. At least here, he can lay them out veiled thinly by the heat of the moment.

 

Bahorel smiles at him and prods him on.

 

“Baz,” he starts. His heart is beating staccato in his chest. He squeezes Bahorel’s hand. “Bahorel, you’re my best friend and one of the greatest men I know. You never cease to amaze me. One of my favorite things about you is your ability to always make me laugh. You have this incredible way of knowing exactly how to help me, and knowing exactly what I need before I really know it myself. I truly wouldn’t be here without you.”

 

He means it literally; he _wouldn’t_ be at the courthouse getting married if it weren’t for Baz’s persuading. Bahorel laughs, startled, but understanding Feuilly’s meaning.

 

He’s _always_ understood Feuilly. He’s always understood everything Feuilly’s never had the strength to say, every hidden meaning, every raised eyebrow and curved smile. It’s why they’re best friends, it’s why Feuilly loves him; Bahorel has understood Feuilly in _everything_.

 

“Okay, vows. I vow to not hog the bathroom as long as I usually do. I vow to always make sure we have at least one meal a day together, even if it means I bring home takeout in between jobs. I vow to never pull my punches, in the boxing arena or in video games, because I know you hate it when I don’t give it my all. I vow to always be there when you need me to cheer you up, because that’s what I’m good for, right? I vow to remain your best friend for the rest of our lives, no matter what happens, because we’re _doing_ this and because you deserve it.”

 

Bahorel’s got these tears in the corner of his eyes, and whatever strength Feuilly had been using to keep himself composed crumples at the sight of this. He pushes out every single thought telling him that this isn’t a ‘real wedding’ from his mind. It _is_ a real wedding, and it’s _his_ —and if his vows were sappy and borderline romantic, well. He really can’t be to blame, can he?

 

“Christ, how am I supposed to go after that?” Bahorel says, laughing breathlessly. Feuilly laughs too, and they’re both crying and everyone else is laughing, and the judge looks oddly touched. It’s a nice moment.

 

“Okay,” Bahorel says. “Sweet and simple. Feu, you are honestly the strongest person I know. When I joke around and say that everyone in our group of friends is in love with you, I’m really not kidding. And who can blame them? You’re smart, you’re funny, you’re amazing—hell, _I’ve_ still got the same embarrassing crush on you and we’re tying the knot here.”

 

Feuilly’s heart constricts tightly in his chest. _Bahorel,_ he thinks desperately. His mind is racing, wondering if this was a _confession_ or just a joke, or—

 

“I vow to keep the apartment a bit cleaner since I know you hate coming home to a mess. I vow to always keep limes in the fridge for those hard days when you just want to have a little fun. I vow to let you use my Netflix account whenever you want, because marriage means sharing things. I vow to remain by your side every day, constantly reminding you how good you are. I will spend every day telling you that you are more than what some people reduce you too, because sometimes I think you dwell too much on the cruel things the world can do and you deserve better than to believe this world doesn’t care for you. It does care. It _does_. Our friends do. And I sure as hell do. I’ve been honored to call you my best friend for all these years, and I’ll be honored to call you my husband from here on out.”

 

 _Fuck it all_ , now. Maybe Bahorel is just as in love with him as he is, or maybe he isn’t. Feuilly knows now that no matter what it is, Baz has got his back and that’s all that really matters. Bahorel, shining and beaming and vowing to never let the world bring him down. Feuilly doesn’t _deserve_ him, but here they are getting married regardless. Maybe this is the universe’s fucked up way of toying with Feuilly’s heart and pretending to give him what he wants. Or maybe it’s the universe finally rooting for him. He doesn’t _care_. When he’d first agreed to marry Bahorel, he hadn’t expected the moment to be like this. He hadn’t expected to feel like his entire world was finally slotting into place. He didn’t expect to feel like this was the best day of his life. He certainly didn’t expect to hear Bahorel _admit_ he had a stupid crush on Feuilly. God, he wants to use that. He wants to tease Bahorel a bit but he mostly just wants to kiss him senseless and tell him that he’s got a stupid, embarrassing crush too.

 

The judge is smiling at them both.

 

She hands them a paper, which they sign. Then Enjolras and Grantaire sign it, and then her signature is added to the bottom, and—

 

They’re _married_.

 

Feuilly does start to cry, at this point.

 

Bahorel wraps him up in a bone-crushing hug, clings to him like nothing else matters and holds him as tightly as possible. Feuilly cries into his nice grey suit and just lets himself be held.

 

“Don’t be shy,” the judge laughs. “You _can_ kiss him. You did just get married after all.”

 

Feuilly isn’t really sure to which one of them she is speaking.

 

It doesn’t really matter, though. He looks up at Bahorel and then he’s being kissed, quick and soft and lovely all the same. He’s grinning through most of it.

 

Bahorel pulls away and he’s smiling just as broadly. “Dude, we just got married.”

 

Feuilly just laughs and buries his face in Bahorel’s chest once more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He’s a little drunk again.

 

Okay, not drunk. Tipsy, definitely, and well on his way to drunk—his friends keep pressing drinks into his hands at the same time that they press kisses to his forehead or pat him on the back in congratulations. He just grins and wears the ring on his finger like a badge of honor.

 

Bahorel is just shy of drunk as well. He’s too close to Feuilly, a bit too much into his personal space but it isn’t like Feuilly really minds. They are _married_ , after all.

 

Chetta planned a pretty spectacular party.

 

The Musain had been been transformed, gossamer and fairy lights hung on the ceiling and lace on chairs. It was corny and ridiculous and Feuilly loves every second of it. There is cake and drinks and dancing and it all looked gorgeous but somehow still fits Bahorel and Feuilly’s style. At one point, Grantaire wheels out a wedding cake thats misshapen and decorated by all their friends. It’s the ugliest thing Feuilly has ever seen but it takes his breath away, and it tastes so good that Feuilly has at least four pieces. Their friends prompt the newlyweds to feed each other, as tradition goes. Feuilly’s drunk; he misses Bahorel’s mouth and laughs when he smears frosting across Baz’s cheek. Bahorel grins and laughs and then his tongue licks the frosting clean.

  
Feuilly swallows thickly and tries to will away his arousal.

 

“I’m kind of bitter that you tied the knot before Courf and me,” Ferre admits, when Feuilly collapses next to him after dancing for a bit. Feuilly frowns.

 

He takes Ferre’s hand in his own. He’s _pretty_ drunk now. “You guys will be next,” he says surely, like it’s a decision he can make. “Bahorel has a bouquet hiding in the kitchen because he wanted to throw it. I’ll make sure you or Courf catches it, because then you guys _have_ to be next.”

 

Feuilly sits back smugly, feeling immensely proud at his plan. Combeferre grins.

 

“That could work,” he agrees. Then he leans in close and gestures for Feuilly to do the same. He whispers, “Or I could just use the engagement ring I have hiding in my dresser.”

 

Feuilly gasps so loud that half of their friends turn to look at him in alarm. “Shut _up_!” Feuilly shouts. “ _Yes_ , I’ve literally been waiting my whole life for this. I know you probably want, like, Enjolras to be the best man. But—you need two, right? Let me be one! Oh my god, I’m so excited.”

 

Ferre shushes him loudly even though he’s giggling. Feuilly clamps his mouth shut. “He hasn’t even said _yes_ yet, Feu! This is a secret. But—yeah, you can be a best man.”

 

Feuilly leans forward in his excitement and presses a messy kiss to the side of Combeferre’s mouth. “ _Thank_ you!” he gushes. Tears are prickling the corners of his eyes and, yeah, okay, he’s a _lot_ more drunk than he originally let on.

 

“Hey!” Courfeyrac’s voice rings out, sharp and warning. “Don’t you dare kiss my man, Feuilly! He’s mine and you’re _married_! Kiss your own man.”

 

It’s basically like the greatest idea Feuilly has ever heard.

 

“Bahorel!” he gasps, standing up dramatically. He sways a bit, dizzy, but then there’s a hand on his arm that centers him. Bahorel’s right there, exactly where Feuilly needs him as always. “Courf had a _great_ idea! We are husbands now, husbands kiss.”

 

Bahorel lets out this strangled sound. Feuilly can’t quite identify the look in his eyes—his beautiful, sweet, understanding eyes. Feuilly could get lost in them; he’s long since gotten past trying to determine their color. Brown, but with flecks of greens and golds and blues in certain lights that just make the brown color all the more lovelier. Bahorel had pretty eyes—Feuilly had a point, he remembers, and he got off track.

 

He frowns. “Right? Isn’t that what husbands do?”

 

Bahorel hesitates, and Feuilly doesn’t like that. He wants to be kissing Bahorel, especially right now when his brow is all furrowed in concentration. It’s maddeningly attractive, and Feuilly wants to smooth away the lines with his lips. Why aren’t they kissing, again?

 

After a moment, Baz leans forward and gently presses his lips to Feuilly’s forehead. Feuilly sighs; almost of their own accord, his arms wrap around Bahorel’s waist and settle in for an embrace. It’s nice. Bahorel is nice.

 

Feuilly loves him.

 

“I love you,” he sighs. “Thank you for marrying me.”

 

Bahorel chuckles. “Are you saying you didn’t just marry me because of my dashing good lucks and my charming personality?”

 

“It was also for your ass,” Feuilly says in all seriousness. He pats Bahorel’s ass and grins wickedly. Bahorel looks back at him with breathless, wonderful eyes.

 

“You’re a damn tease,” he murmurs.

 

“And you get horny after three tequila shots,” Feuilly counters. “Face it, baby. We know each other inside and out; that’s what happens when you’ve been friends as long as we have. And now we’re married, and most married couples _don’t_ know everything about their spouse because they’re stupid and don’t care to learn everything. But I’m glad I know everything about you because you’re amazing, Baz, and you married me and that’s awesome. Did I say thanks already? Thank you—I had a point. Anyway, married couples should know everything about each other because how cool is it that I know all this random stuff about you? We’re better than most married people, Bahorel. We’re their _example_.”

 

Bahorel frowns at him. Why is he frowning? Feuilly doesn’t want his husband to frown.

 

“You’re very drunk, Feu,” he states. His own hold tightens around Feuilly, steadying him in place. “It’s getting late, we should probably take you home before you get sick.”

 

Feuilly’s frowning now, too. “But it’s our wedding reception,” he argues. “We can’t just _leave._ Musichetta and Joly put up all these beautiful decorations for us. We have an ugly cake! Grantaire hasn’t even done his karaoke solo yet.”

 

“Feuilly.”

 

“I don’t want this night to end,” says Feuilly stubbornly. He’s exhausted suddenly, but he can’t admit that. 

 

Bahorel’s gaze softens. “You’re so drunk.”

 

“ _You’re_ drunk,” mumbles Feuilly. He wants to sit down.

 

He sways a bit more and nearly stumbles. “Whoa, there tiger!” Bahorel says, holding him tighter and closer and keeping him upright. “Okay, it’s definitely time to go. Amis, I’m sorry, but my husband here is incredibly drunk and it’s time I take him home and tuck him into bed before he gets sick all over the beautiful reception you made for us.”

 

There’s a few groans, a few catcalls, and a lot of innuendos that Feuilly doesn’t really catch. Somewhere deep down, he _knows_ it’s his wedding night. He _knows_ what’s supposed to happen. But he and Feuilly aren’t traditional, aren’t legitimate. They had sex one time, half-drunk, and agreed it was a one time thing. And Bahorel’s right, Feuilly is _so drunk_. Nothing’s gonna happen tonight.

 

They aren’t legitimate.

 

Feuilly realizes suddenly why he drank so much tonight.

“Oh,” he murmurs.

 

His eyes are closed.

 

He’s fairly certain Bahorel’s picked him up at this point, as they exit the Musain. It feels nice to curl up against Bahorel’s chest—if Feuilly listens closely, he can count Bahorel’s heartbeats. They’re like butterfly wings. Feuilly wonders why his heart is beating so fast.

 

His fingers curl around the fabric of Bahorel’s dress shirt, and he’s pretty sure he feels Bahorel’s heart skip a beat or two.

 

He’s in love with this man.

 

He married the man he loves, but it isn’t legitimate. Bahorel doesn’t even know. Feuilly wants to tell him—he feels like he _owes_ it to Bahorel now. Baz married him because he needed the financial help. He always gives Feuilly exactly what he needs. Feuilly’s been lying to himself and to everyone else when he says this isn’t for real, because he desperately wants it to be.

 

He doesn’t deserve Bahorel.

 

Feuilly doesn’t deserve him, and he knows it in his heart and in his mind and he _knows_ that’s part of why he drank so much tonight. It makes him sad. Bahorel deserves the truth, he deserves someone who will love him without reservations or doubts or fears or financial necessities. He deserves love. Feuilly loves him; mind, body, and soul. He loves him from some hidden part in his body, from the bottom of his heart to the moon and back again. But it’s not enough, because Bahorel doesn’t even know. He probably doesn’t even feel the same.

 

Feuilly thinks he should tell Bahorel.

 

“I’m sorry,” Feuilly says instead. He’s on the verge of tears.

 

“Don’t apologize,” Bahorel murmurs back. Feuilly is almost certain he feels Bahorel press a kiss to the top of his hair.

 

He clings a bit tighter to Bahorel’s shirt and starts to cry.

 

Tomorrow, Feuilly decides, he’ll tell Bahorel the truth. _I’m in love with you_ , he’ll say. His voice will waver but he’ll hold his chin up high and not let Bahorel see how scared he is. _I’m in love with you and we got married and it isn’t fair of me to pretend that I’m not affected by it because I’ve been selfish this entire time and I’m sorry._

 

Bahorel might hate him. Feuilly thinks he’d understand it, in the end.

 

He’s not quite sure when he falls asleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sunlight streams through the curtains when he finally drags himself back to consciousness. The brightness startles him, hurts his eyes and vibrates between the cracks in his migraine. The curtains have been rearranged in an attempt to keep the light away from him as much as possible. There’s a glass of water and some aspirin on the table next to the bed, as well as Feuilly’s glasses and a breath-mint. Everything Feuilly needs to have after a night of heavy drinking is exactly where he needs it to be, and he’s got Bahorel to thank for that, he’s sure.

 

Feuilly almost falls out of the bed when he realizes he isn’t in his room, though.

 

The blue sheets pool around his waist, and Feuilly realizes with shocking clarity that he isn’t wearing much clothes. His heart is pounding—what _happened_ last night? He drank so much. _God,_ the only other time he and Bahorel had sex was when they were super drunk. Feuilly is kind of afraid to look under the covers.

 

He’s in Bahorel’s room. He’s in Bahorel’s _bed_. Oh, god.

 

Scratch that—he’s _terrified_ to look under the covers.

 

“Baz?” he calls timidly. His head is pounding. At least the curtains are drawn as much as possible. He wonders if he has Bahorel to thank for that, too. He hears what he thinks are sounds coming from the kitchen. “Bahorel!”

 

Bahorel grunts and lets out a string of colorful profanities as something clatters and drops to the floor. His footsteps are heavy and grumpy as he stomps towards his bedroom door, pushing it open slowly.

 

Feuilly unabashedly stares, mouth dry.

 

Bahorel has always been beautiful—that was one of the first things Feuilly ever noticed about him. First had been how _loud_ Baz was. Second was his downright devastating good looks. And third, if Feuilly remembers correctly, was the pink crocheted apron tied around his waist as he pulled cupcakes out of the oven.

 

The point is, Bahorel has always been _beautiful_.

 

Standing in his own doorway, wearing a pair of sweats hanging almost too low and a faded t-shirt stretched across his torso, Feuilly isn’t sure Bahorel has ever looked more radiant. His hair is piled into a bun on the top of his head, and he’s got a smear of batter or dough across his cheek; he’s barefoot and his sweats are too short and it’s a sight Feuilly has seen almost every morning ever since he and Bahorel moved in together.

 

But that’s his _husband_. His actual, legal, totally-married husband who is staring at him in confusion and holding a whisk in his hand.

 

Feuilly opens and closes his mouth a few times.

 

“You haven’t even taken the aspirin yet,” Bahorel whines. He furrows his brow. “You need to drink water. And _take_ the pills, dammit. There’s only so much I can do to help you with a hangover and it doesn’t _do_ anything if you don’t cooperate, asshole.”

 

Feuilly still can’t speak.

 

Bahorel frowns. “What’s wrong?”

 

He’s stepping forward before Feuilly can even say a word, hand already outstretched. Feuilly doesn’t quite understand what bahorel is doing but his heart is beating erratically and then Bahorel is brushing his fingers across Feuilly’s forehead and—

 

Ah.

 

Feuilly lets out the breath he’d been holding.

 

“Christ, you’re burning up,” Bahorel mutters. “Are you feeling okay? Drink your damn water, I’m going to get a fever reducer for you—”

 

Bahorel stops when Feuilly’s hand shoots up and grabs his wrist. “I’m okay,” he breathes out. “It’s just—I’m overwhelmed. I’m okay. I’l take the damn medicine, thank you. What are you making for breakfast? And, oh, another thing, why am I in your bed and not in my clothes?”

 

Bahorel blinks for a moment. Something indescribable crosses over his face as he takes in Feuilly’s appearance, before he grunts again and his eyes dart to the bedside table as he reaches for the glass of water. “You fell asleep sometime between me carrying you up the stairs and setting you down on the couch. I was going to take you to your room but you…” He trails off.

 

Feuilly can feel his heart beating in his throat.

 

“You woke up and started to cry,” Bahorel admits. There’s a fond smile playing at the corner of his lips. Feuilly would be more distracted by it if he wasn’t dying of embarrassment. “You said you wanted a comfy bed, not your lumpy mattress, and you asked if you could sleep in my bed so I let you, and I left you to go grab some water and when I came back you were passed out.”

 

“Sure, but why am I half-naked?”

 

Bahorel makes another sound that Feuilly can’t quite identify. His cheeks are slightly flushed. “That was all you, man, when I left you in here you still had all your clothes on.”

 

Feuilly thinks he might be a bit disappointed, which is absurd.

 

“Okay,” he says, like his entire world isn’t crashing and burning around him. His husband smiles and pats his knee. “Cool. Give me the water.”

 

Bahorel hands it over without another word, as well as everything else he’d had laid out for Feuilly. As Feu takes his aspirin and puts his glasses on, Bahorel says, “Oh, and I’m making raspberry muffins for breakfast. I didn’t know if you’d be in the mood for eggs or not since it’s always hit or miss when you’re hungover, but they’re ready to fry if you want them.”

 

Feuilly crinkles his nose. “Not an egg day,” he says decidedly. “Do we still have some of that tofu bacon Jehan brought over the other day? That sounds heavenly.”

 

“Yeah, probably. They brought us enough to feed a small army.”

 

“Awesome,” Feuilly says happily. “Let’s cook that up. Hey, can I borrow a shirt? Most of mine are dirty, it’s laundry day.”

 

Bahorel just rolls his eyes and hands Feuilly the t-shirt that had been folded and placed near his bed. “Already got one for you, dumbass. Don’t ever say I don’t know you. Do you want me to start cooking anything else, too?”

 

Feuilly shakes his head. The fabric of the shirt Bahorel handed him is absurdly soft, familiar under his fingertips and warm in his hands. Bahorel pats his knee a few more times before standing, grabbing the whisk from where he’d set it down and walking back to the doorway. He only stops for a second to turn around and grin wickedly at Feuilly. “Hey,” he says, and Feuilly looks up almost immediately. “Hell of a way to start our honeymoon, eh?”

 

Something inside Feuilly curls warmly at the thought and settles at the base of his spine. It nestles, and it warms him from head to toe. Bahorel’s got the softest of smiles on his face, Feuilly’s got his shirt in his hands, and for a moment everything seems like it’s normal and wonderful and beautiful.

 

They’re _married_.

 

Then Feuilly remembers Bahorel doesn’t know the truth about how he feels, and the warmth at   spine curdles painfully.

 

Bahorel slips away when Feuilly doesn’t reply. For a moment, all he can do is hold the shirt in his hands and try to convince his body to stop shaking. He’s _not_ going to cry. Not here, not on his first day. He’s resolved to tell Bahorel, that’s all he remembers from certain from the previous night, but now he’s not quite certain he can.

 

“Bahorel, I’m in love with you,” Feuilly tells his t-shirt seriously. Unsurprisingly, the t-shirt doesn’t respond. Feuilly grins in satisfaction. “See? That wasn’t so hard. You can do this.”

 

The t-shirt stares limply back at him.

 

Feuilly’s shoulders sag.

 

“I’m a coward,” he groans, then he forces himself out of bed.

 

 

 

Bahorel is strangely at home in the kitchen, something Feuilly’s never quite been able to wrap his head around. He’s come home to Bahorel wrapped in an apron more often than not, and he’s never been starved for a good meal because everything Bahorel presents is extraordinary. The tofu bacon is frying in the pan, Feuilly can hear it as he patters around in the hallway. Sure enough, Bahorel is standing at the stovetop with an apron around his waist singing a pop song as he flips the bacon and pulling the muffins out of the oven. Feuilly used to tell Bahorel he’d be a great house-spouse because of his cooking.

 

Feuilly supposes he was right, after all.

 

He also used to think that whoever Bahorel ended up marrying would wake up every morning and think that they were damn lucky they married someone as sexy and as caring as Baz.

 

Feuilly was right about that, too.

 

He’s barely got a second to sit down at the counter before Bahorel is putting a plate down in front of him as well as _another_ glass of water. “Does your face still feel like you slept on the surface of the fucking sun?”

 

Feuilly frowns. He’s _not_ sick, and he knows he didn’t feel _that_ warm. “I don’t know,” he says petulantly. Bahorel rolls his eyes.

 

“Eat your damn tofu bacon, you heathen,” he mutters. “What’s your plan for today?”

 

“Uh, nothing,” Feuilly says. The statement surprises him—his plans are never _nothing_. But he’d somehow managed to get the day off from all his jobs for a second day in a row; he won’t lie and say he’d been optimistic to take the day off. Part of him hopes Bahorel doesn’t have any plans either. “I mean, obviously on Monday we’re going to have to take our marriage license around the entirety of Paris to start sorting out everything we did this for.”

 

Bahorel’s got a sour look on his face. “Right,” he says. “Yeah, no, you’re right. Uh, we should probably make a list then. To make sure we don’t forget any of the reasons we got married in the first place.”

 

There’s a sharp bite to Bahorel’s words, one that doesn’t make sense to Feuilly outside of maybe  minuscule irritation at having to marry Feuilly at all. He’s struck with the sudden desire to apologize to Bahorel for dragging him into this at all; it has been nice to think of Baz as his husband but Feuilly’s _in love_ with him. There’s a chance that Bahorel resents this entire thing, and the possibility begins to gnaw at the insides of Feuilly’s stomach.

 

He’s not hungry anymore.

 

“I’ll grab a notebook,” he mutters, pushing his plate away.

 

It’s oddly tense between them as they compose the list, neither of them really sure what to make of the tightness but neither willing to speak on it either. It’s quiet except for when they bring up the points, and Feuilly’s neat handwriting scratches across the page in time to their suggestions.

 

In the end, their list goes as follows:

 

 

REASONS WE GOT MARRIED

 

_—Financial aid for Feuilly_

_—Financial aid for Bahorel_

_—Cheaper rent for married couples_

_—Taxes??_

_—Shared/better insurance_

_—Feuilly’s nice butt_

 

 

Feuilly rolls his eyes when Bahorel takes the list out of his hands to specifically write down the last one, but he can’t deny that it makes him blush and bite his lip to keep from saying something stupid.

 

They pin the list up on the fridge.

 

 

* * *

 

 

On Sunday, as Feuilly is putting on his coat and assembling a small lunch to take to work, he falters when he notices Bahorel has added onto the list yet again.

 

_—He sings in the shower_

 

Feuilly’s breath gets caught in his throat.

 

This does something to him, spreads warmth through his entire body and elevates his heart rate and makes him smile from ear to ear. There’s something about the way Bahorel adds on _human_ things, _real_ things to their list of reasons they got married, that makes Feuilly’s heart soar. The list was supposed to be functional—it was just supposed to be a checklist of things they got done on Monday to start reaping the benefits of married life since there wasn’t much else to their relationship.

 

Feuilly hesitates for just a moment before grabbing a Sharpie off the counter and scribbling on his own personal reason.

 

_—He makes the best pastries_

 

His soul is bright for the rest of the day.

 

 

 

“Good morning!” says Feuilly cheerfully as he makes his way into the café. It’s slow, with only a few customers sitting at the tables. Perfect for a morning like today. Floréal smiles distractedly at him from behind the counter as they’re handing a regular their coffee.

 

He’s slipping his apron on as he slides behind the counter and presses a kiss to Floréal’s temple. He hums as he walks away to clock in and check to see what tables he has for the day. Floréal doesn’t respond, and Feuilly doesn’t really find that odd until he realizes how quiet the café is and that he’s got the feeling someone is staring at him.

 

Floréal _is_ staring at him, their eyes narrowed in suspicion.

 

“Who’d you sleep with?” they demand.

 

Feuilly splutters indignantly. “ _No one_!” he huffs. Which is true, not that it _matters_. He’s married to Bahorel and they’re not sleeping together and that’s fine. Feuilly sighs. “Can’t a guy just be in a good mood?”

 

 _This guy won’t be in a good mood if you remind him he isn’t sleeping with his super sexy husband, however,_ Feuilly thinks to himself.

 

“You’re never _not_ in a good mood, Feu; this is different.” Floréal puts their hand on his forehead. “Are you sick? Do you have a fever? Did you win the lottery or something?”

 

Feuilly pushes their hands away and laughs good-naturedly. “ _Flo_. It’s just a good day. I woke up in a good mood, wasn’t a line for coffee, métro was on time, it’s going to be an easy shift. Good day, that’s all it is.”

 

Floréal doesn’t reply. They’re too busy staring at the ring on his left hand.

 

“Hold on,” they say. “What’s this.”

 

Feuilly wants to disappear again. “Uhhh,” he drawls. He tries to pull his hand away but Floréal catches it and continues to stare at his ring. “Flo—”

 

“Is this a wedding ring?” they ask. “You’re _married_?! Have you been married this whole time? Wait—who? Is this new? It can’t be new, right, because you would have _told_ me if you were getting married, but—it can’t be _old_ , I would have _known_ , right? Feuilly, what the hell?”

 

They’re making a fuss, and everyone in the café—all two of them—are staring at them with interest sparked in their eyes. “Flo!” he hisses. “You’re making a scene!”

 

“You’re _married_!” they practically cry.

 

“For what it’s worth,” drawls the man at the counter who nurses his coffee, “it _is_ kind of a low blow that you didn’t tell ‘em about your marriage. Whatever the circumstance is.”

 

Floréal looks at him victoriously. Feuilly scowls. “Stuff it, Babet, I’m charging you twice for that coffee.”

 

He raises his glass.

 

“Tell me!” Flo demands, still clinging to Feuilly’s hands. He sighs.

 

“Bahorel and I got married,” he starts, but Floréal starts to cheer and clap in their excitement and he doesn’t really get the chance to finish speaking _at all_.

 

“Oh, my god!” they’re shouting. “That’s _amazing_ , you’ve had a crush on him for so long now. I always knew you two would get your shit together, but damn, you seriously jumped ahead real fast, didn’t you? Did you two even date before you decided to get married?”

 

Feuilly tries to explain that no, they didn’t date, because it’s not _real_ , but Floréal has the unseemly ability to say a thousand words a minute.

 

“That’s so cute though, that you couldn’t wait. My girlfriend and I have been circling around the topic for like, months now. You know how it goes though, right, one year for gay dating is essentially like five years for straight dating. Still, you guys were really eager! But you already live together, don’t you?”

 

“Yeah, but—” Feuilly tries.

 

“Oh, Feu, I’m _so_ happy for you,” they say finally, wrapping him up in a hug. “I’m mad at you because you lied to me and said you hadn’t slept with anyone, and I’m also mad that you didn’t invite me to your surprise wedding, but you can make it up to me by letting me take you and your new husband out to a nice dinner. Or you can take me out and I’ll just buy you two a lovely gift, it’s up to you.”

 

“We really weren’t asking for gifts,” says Feuilly weakly. Floréal shoots him a look. “But we’d love to go to dinner with you. Uh, if I can get a night off, though.”

 

Floréal waves their hand dismissively. “You work on Wednesday, right? Jean was trying to pick up a shift that night, so let him take yours then we can go out.”

 

Feuilly sighs. “You have an unnatural ability for making things work out the way you want them to,” he tells them. He’s half-impressed, half-annoyed that they managed to figure out the perfect way to get Feuilly and Bahorel to come. Maybe he can lie and say that Bahorel teaches classes on Wednesdays.

 

“I know,” Floréal sings, finally moving away from Feuilly. “How do you think I was able to get you the entire weekend off? I’m a gift, what can I—hey, wait, did you get the whole weekend off to get _married_?!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

"So Floréal invited us to dinner," says Feuilly conversationally. It's easy to pretend he isn't freaking out about having to have this conversation.

 

"From the café?" Bahorel asks. He sounds surprised by that. "I didn't know you actually made _friends_ with the people you work with at the café. I'm impressed, Feu."

 

Feuilly throws a pen at Baz's head. "Fuck off," he retorts. "They said they want to take us out, and either they're paying, or we're paying and they're buying us a grand wedding gift."

 

Bahorel laughs. "I won't complain about free stuff. They gonna get you a night off, too?"

 

"They already did," Feuilly mutters, still bitter about the way Floréal was able to easily get it taken care of.

 

"Whoa," Bahorel says. He looks at Feuilly with wide eyes. "You _rarely_ get nights off. Are they a sorcerer?"

 

Feuilly rolls his eyes. "Just dedicated to the cause," he says. He frowns at the paperwork in front of him. "Hey, toss me back that pen? They're really excited about it though, I wouldn't be surprised if it was some black-tie place. They want to do it Wednesday night."

 

"My schedule is open," Bahorel says. He grins wickedly. "Aw, babe. Our first date as a married couple."

 

The words resound in Feuilly; he blushes from head to toe. It's hard not to react as such when Bahorel drops casual mentions like that, his easy use of the term 'husband' and his simple way of saying 'married'. There's a rush that courses through Feuilly's veins every damn time, and he's pretty sure he'll never get sick of it.

 

He bites his lip to keep from saying something stupid, like _I'm kind of obnoxiously in love with you_ , or t _ake off your clothes and let me suck your dick_. He's still got to tell Bahorel the worst part of it all, anyway.

 

"Perfect, Wednesday night is date night," Feuilly says. He folds a corner of the bill he's staring at and takes a deep breath. The next words come out in a rush. " _Also Flo thinks we're like actually together so there's that_."

 

Bahorel blinks. He puts down his beer. "What?" he asks.

 

Feuilly stares pointedly at his papers. "Uh," he says smartly. "Floréal thinks we're actually a couple, like real married and shit? That's why they wanna get us a gift. And take us out on a double date with their girlfriend."

 

Bahorel crosses his arms. "And why do they think we're a couple, Feuilly?" His voice is scarily calm.

 

Feuilly scratches at the stubble on his jawline. "Uh," he says again. "Because I couldn't tell her we weren't?"

 

"Why not."

 

"Well," says Feuilly. This conversation is going about as well as he expected it to. "You'd have to know Flo to understand that once they start talking, you aren't really able to get a word in. They latched onto 'marriage' and 'Bahorel', and just like. Assumed."

 

Bahorel closes his eyes. “Okay. Okay. It makes sense. People don't usually get married because they're in circumstances such as ours. People are going to assume."

 

Feuilly is never going to stop feeling guilty about roping Bahorel into this.

 

"I'm _sorry_ ," he whispers. "I didn't really think about this part of it all. We can, like. Not tell people? I guess."

 

"No," Bahorel says. Feuilly's heart jumps in his chest. "No, that's stupid. We're married, we can act like it. There's a chance this is illegal, especially if the university catches on, so we'll just roll with the punches right?"

 

Feuilly can't breathe. He's literally struggling to breathe and he's pretty sure his heart is pounding out of his sternum and Bahorel's looking at him all expectantly. "Right," he finally manages to say. "Obviously, that's what we have to do."

 

"Cool," Bahorel says easily. Everything is so _easy_ for him; Feuilly seriously wonders how he does it because personally he has a heart attack anytime Bahorel so much as looks at him for longer than three seconds. "So we'll act like we're legit."

 

Feuilly is going to die.

 

"No big deal," he lies.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They walk into the restaurant holding hands.

 

It's not supposed to be a big deal.

 

Feuilly thinks he's going to melt into a puddle on the floor.

 

Floréal and their girlfriend are already at the table, and they both wave when they see Baz and Feuilly. Feuilly waves back with his free hand, and Bahorel leads them to the table and kisses Feu's hand before letting go and pulling his chair out for him.

 

"Thanks," Feuilly mutters, blushing all over, and Bahorel presses his lips softly to Feuilly's hairline.

 

"You two are adorable," Floréal coos. "You must be Bahorel. Im Floréal, this is Adélaïde, my girlfriend."

 

Adélaïde smiles sweetly and extends her hand for Feuilly and Bahorel to shake. She's very pretty, with caramel skin and dark eyes and a patterned hijab. "I'm Feuilly, that's my husband Bahorel. It's wonderful to meet you, you're very lovely."

 

She has a twinkling laugh. "Thank you, that's very kind. You and your husband are quite a couple."

 

Bahorel grins. He claps his hand on Feuilly's thigh. "That's why I married him, his cute face pairs perfectly with mine."

 

Feuilly has accepted that his fate for this entire dinner is to be a blushing mess the entire time.

 

Other than that, dinner goes on without a hitch. Adélaïde insists on paying despite the fact that Floréal already got them a gift, and she encourages them order whatever they'd like. It's easy and it's nice, probably the nicest date Feuilly's ever been on. Bahorel keeps his hand on Feuilly's thigh for the most part.

 

Feuilly kisses the corner of Baz's mouth once or twice, probably more than is necessary. He finds he can't really restrain himself, especially with the weight of his husband's hand on his leg.

 

"Okay, but I've got to ask," Floréal says as they pour them all another glass of wine. "I know Feu's side, but I want to know. Bahorel, when did you know Feuilly was it for you?"

 

Feuilly tenses. _They didn't talk about this!_ He's about to open his mouth to say something, to say _anything_ , but Bahorel laughs big and boisterous and the words die in Feuilly's throat.

 

"Oh, god," Bahorel says. He sighs. When he looks at Feuilly, there's something in his eyes that's so familiar and foreign and beautiful that it takes his breath away. Bahorel has the softest of smiles on his face, indescribable emotions in his eyes, and it's absolutely beautiful. "Forever, I think. You already know Feu and I have been best friends for as long as we can remember."

 

Feuilly's struggling to catch his breath. "Baz," he murmurs. His eyes are wide.

 

"There was this one day," Bahorel recalls, and his voice as grown soft. "This day that Feuilly came over to my house after class and sat on my bed with me and helped me through an essay. It was some controversial topic, I didn't even care about it at the time, I barely wanted to write the essay in the first place. But Feu got so heated about it, he lectured me about why I should care and by the end - well, he was crying."

 

"Oh my god," Feuilly hisses. He hides his face in his hands. He remembers, of course he does, getting so angry that Bahorel didn't care that tears began to prickle at the corners of his eyes before starting to fall. He'd been so _embarrassed_ , to be crying in front of his best friend like that. "This is so bad, what the hell."

 

"He was crying," Bahorel repeats. His fingers tap on Feuilly's chin, forcing him to look up. "And it struck me in that moment that I'd never meet anyone as passionate and wonderful as him. All I wanted then was for Feu to be that passionate about me."

 

Feuilly's really struggling to breathe properly at this point. That's such a random moment, from years ago, but Bahorel remembers it with perfect clarity. He built this story out of nowhere, on the spot, out of this moment from so long ago that Feuilly wouldn't have even _remembered_ had Bahorel not brought it up. It's too perfect, it doesn't add up; could Bahorel have really made up a story that specific, is there more behind it than just a facade they'll put on in public?

 

Has Bahorel been loving him from afar all these years? Have they been wasting their time pretending that they've always only been friends, when they could have been so much more?

 

The table is silent: Bahorel still looking at him with imploring eyes, Floréal and Adélaïde sharing the same look of happiness, and Feuilly, stuck in his own thoughts.

 

"That's," he manages to say, leaning forward seemingly of his own accord, "really gay, Baz."

 

Bahorel laughs and rolls his eyes and Feuilly's still leaning forward and he's kissing the corner of Bahorel's mouth again but Bahorel moves and then they're _kissing_ and Feuilly swears he could fly.

 

"You've been loving him for years," Floréal sighs. "You two are _right_ out of a romantic comedy, you know? It's adorable."

 

 _Is it real?_ Feuilly wants to scream.

 

"You're a damn sap," Feuilly whispers.

 

Bahorel brushes the hair away from Feuilly's eyes and lets his thumb trace his jawline. "Yeah, but you still married me," he reminds Feuilly.

 

As if Feuilly could ever forget.

 

“They’re giving us a run for our money, darling,” Floréal whispers conspiringly. “They’ve almost got a cuter story than us.”

 

Adélaïde grins. “Right, but I don’t know Feuilly’s story! I know Flo here has been listening in since the beginning, but would you mind terribly if I asked you to retell it? When did you know you were in love with Bahorel?”

 

“Since the beginning—?” Bahorel asks.

 

“Damn, this wine is _really_ smooth,” Feuilly blurts out, panicked.

 

“When was the beginning, Feuilly?” Bahorel inquires, turning in his chair. Feuilly’s going to die, he’s going to have a stroke in this fancy restaurant and he’s going to die and it’s fine because everyone is already staring at him anyway—

 

“He used to be unable to shut up about you,” Floréal supplies, the _traitor_. “Everything was ‘ _Bahorel this_ ’ or ‘ _Bahorel that_ ’. It was annoying at first, but endearing after a while. You could tell he really cared about you.”

 

“I don’t think I really caught onto my feelings until later, though,” Feuilly says quickly. He’s not sure what he’s doing but he’s _got_ to salvage this. “I think—it was always kind of there, I always knew, but I never truly _knew_. Then I’d finally sat down and thought, ‘Okay, so you’re obsessed with your best fried. Why?’ and thought about everything I’d done over the past few years, and. I guess I got punched in the face by my own feelings.”

 

The table laughs. Feuilly is just hoping he doesn’t get punched in the face by Bahorel if he finds out just how true this story is.

 

“I’d, like. Basically resigned myself to a fate of loving him from afar.” _Which is true_ , Feuilly thinks, because that’s exactly where he is today. “I told myself Bahorel deserved the best, and that I’d support him through anything and that my feelings didn’t change anything. I was scared for it to go any further.”

 

“What happened?” asks Adélaïde. “What made it go further?”

 

“We got drunk,” Feuilly and Bahorel say together. They both laugh, and share a look they’ve shared many times throughout their long history. Alone, Bahorel says, “Feuilly had a shitty day. I kept pouring the shots. The… Truth came out, and I proposed right there on the spot.”

 

“Drunk?” Floréal gasps.

 

Bahorel nods dramatically. “I gave him my old family ring and everything, one of my only remaining ties to my family and my heritage. He said yes. We woke up the next morning, and decided—well, we were serious about it, weren’t we?”

 

“Wouldn’t be here if we weren’t,” adds Feuilly, nodding seriously. He’s able to breathe properly again, his heart no longer trying to escape the confines of his chest. “And the rest is history.”

 

“No,” says Bahorel softly. Feuilly glances at him. “The rest is our future.”

 

 _Fuck_ , that punches Feuilly in the gut and basically wipes away any chance of Feuilly getting over Bahorel ever. He’s in too deep now, invested and in love and married under the wrong circumstances but he’s dug himself a grave and he’s ready to stay there until he dies. He’s sure he’s smiling like an idiot, he can’t even keep his _emotions_ in check anymore. Bahorel raises their intertwined hands—Feuilly isn’t sure when they even _started_ holding hands—and tenderly kisses Feuilly’s knuckle.

 

“Maybe we _should_ get married,” Floréal whispers, and Adélaïde shoots them a thankful look from across the table.

 

All in all, it’s the best date Feuilly’s ever gone on.

 

 

 

“I have a question,” Bahorel says, when they’re alone in the cab on their way home. “You talked about me to Flo?”

 

Feuilly groans. Ever the dramatic, he looks out the window and pouts at the streetlights. “You weren’t supposed to find out about that,” he mumbles. Bahorel laughs and pats his thigh.

 

“If you mean I wasn’t supposed to find out about your little crush on me, you don’t have to worry,” Bahorel teases. “I’ve known about that for a while now.”

 

Feuilly whirls around. “You _knew_?!” he cries, horribly embarrassed. This is it, he’s going to ask the cab driver to pull over so that Feuilly can get out and stand in the middle of the road until he’s run over. Panic swells in his chest, in his throat, but Bahorel just keeps smiling calmly at him.

 

“Feu, it’s okay—you _married_ me, you dumb sap, I think it’s safe to say I’m aware of your crush,” he laughs. “Just like I know about the crush you have on Enjolras, and on Chetta, and on Jehan—”

 

“Now you’re just being a dick,” says Feuilly petulantly. He crosses his arms, because he’s nothing if he’s not childish.

 

“You aren’t denying them.”

 

A beat.

 

“ _Okay_ , but Enjolras is literally amazing, and Chetta is so beautiful and smart, and Jehan is the most versatile and unique person I’ve ever met, how can you _not_ have crushes on them.”

 

Bahorel laughs. “ _I know_ , Feu.”

 

Feuilly pauses for another moment. “Hey, wait,” he says, “by your logic, you knowing about my crush on you because I married you would mean that you _also_ have a crush on me!”

 

Bahorel splutters. “Well,” he says indignantly. He looks away, and Feuilly grins in triumph. “ _Yeah_ , you’re like super hot, but also the coolest person ever. Everyone in our friend group has a crush on you.”

 

“But you _married_ me,” Feuilly says smugly, “which means that _your_ crush is the most embarrassing.”

 

“I hate you.”

 

“No, you don’t.”

 

Another pause.

 

“No, I really don’t.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next month of married life is strangely quiet.

 

Outside of them getting everything in order financially and beneficially, not much goes on. Feuilly gets teased at all his jobs for his shiny new husband, and Bahorel makes him come to the gym one week to meet the kids’ boxing class he teaches when the kids demand to meet Bahorel’s awesome spouse.

 

They enroll for school. It’s cheaper than either of them expected.

 

They celebrate with a nice dinner, outside of the apartment for once.

 

Their landlord had been surprised when they’d brought her the news, but she smiled and said, “It was only a matter of time, I suppose,” before giving them a discounted rent and renewing their lease. Feuilly tries not to dwell on it too much.

 

Everything’s in order, and they spend their first month as a married couple in quiet bliss.

 

 

 

It changes up a bit when Feuilly starts school.

 

He attends one class and gets attacked by nearly everyone, all of them noticing the new ring on his finger and asking him what the hell he did over the break. It’s exhausting.

 

**To: husband!!**

[8:13] ohhhhmygofhd we made a mistake

[8:13] i have been attacked by eighteen (18) people already abt why i’m wearing a wedding ring i’m so Tired

 

**From: husband!!**

[8:15] ok yea i get that it’s exhausting but also i kind of really like shocking people??

[8:16] like “oh yes my husband” “your husband??” “yes my husband feuilly” “feuilly???” “yes him” “your best friend??????” “yes that one we were Wed over the summer” “????????!?!!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?!”

 

Feuilly has to bite his lip to keep from bursting into a grin.

 

**To: husband!!**

[8:17] you have a point

[8:17] i do like surprising people

 

**From: husband!!**

[8:49] probably the best benefit of marriage so far ;)

 

So Feuilly gets over his embarrassment about people ridiculing him for marrying his best friend, and he actually starts to lean into it.

 

He and Bahorel have far too much fun with that.

 

They post a picture on Feuilly’s Instagram that Joly had taken one night while they’d been at the Musain. Feuilly’s half-sitting in Bahorel’s lap, they’re both holding their beers and laughing at something Courfeyrac had shouted from across the way. The way that Feuilly is holding the beer perfectly shows off his wedding ring, which makes the picture ideal for posting.

 

It’s got nearly a hundred comments within the hour.

 

“I love everything that’s happening,” Bahorel tells him as he reads the comments out loud. This is the best thing that’s ever happened to anyone, ever.”

 

Combeferre raises an eyebrow from where he sits across from them. “I beg to differ,” he says conversationally. “I’d have to say that the best thing to happen to anyone, ever, happened to me this afternoon when Courfeyrac accepted my marriage proposal.”

 

Okay, so Bahorel and Feuilly aren’t the only ones who like surprising people.

 

The entire room bursts into cheers and catcalls, Courfeyrac is crying and Combeferre is grinning smugly, and it’s beautiful. It’s different from when Bahorel and Feuilly had announced their engagement, of _course_ it is, because they’re an actual couple—they celebrate with another round and everyone starts to dance, lead by none other than Enjolras as he drags Grantaire onto the floor. It’s a good night, all in all.

 

 

 

Feuilly gets the phone call not long after he’d posted the picture.

 

“Uh, hey, Parnasse,” he says pleasantly. It’s been a while since he’d heard from his brother at all, and the phone call though unexpected is a nice gift. “How are you?”

 

“Not _married_ , that’s how I am!” Montparnasse snaps. “My own _brother_. You got married and you didn’t even tell me? Is it because you didn’t want to let me plan it? You bastard, I didn’t even _want_ to. I just hope you didn’t show up to the courthouse in some atrocious suit. Oh, god, you probably did. I’m disowning you.”

 

Montparnasse, as ever, is a man of few words.

 

Well, usually. Not when it comes to his brother.

 

Or his significant other.

 

Feuilly grins.

 

“Mont, you’ve been in Egypt for the past three months, I didn’t even know you were _home_ ,” Feuilly reminds him.

 

“You _betrayed_ me.”

 

“Don’t listen to him, Feu, he says he didn’t want to plan your wedding but I saw him throwing away his binder full of ideas ten minutes ago,” calls Jehan cheerfully over the line. “Hello, by the way! We got you gifts from Egypt.”

 

“I’m divorcing you,” Montparnasse growls.

 

“You and Jehan aren’t married,” Feuilly states.

 

“You don’t get to talk, I’ve disowned you,” sniffs Montparnasse. Feuilly rolls his eyes. “Betrayed by my own flesh and blood.”

 

“You two are just _foster siblings_ —” laughs Jehan.

 

“Oh my god, everyone I care about has betrayed me today,” Montparnasse whines. “I called to congratulate you. I’m glad to know you and Bahorel finally got your shit together. Honestly, it was dreadful watching you pine after him for years.”

 

Feuilly sighs. “Hate to burst your bubble, little bro, but we aren’t together. Strictly a marriage of convenience.”

 

There’s silence on the other line.

 

Then—

 

“ _Oh my god Jehan they got married and they don’t even know they’re in love with each other I hate this I can’t do it anymore I cannot handle another second of their pining oh my god what did I do to deserve this._ ”

 

Jehan speaks next. “Uh,” they laugh, sounding distracted. “Parnasse is kind of having a mental breakdown. He just went and picked up the cat then took him outside, and now he’s sitting on the fire escape looking like he’s lost the meaning for life.”

 

“He’s so dramatic.”

 

“I know,” coos Jehan fondly. “We _are_ happy for you. And we really do have gifts! It’s not a wedding gift though, just a brotherly gift from one to another. When is the next time you’re free so we can drop it off?”

 

Feuilly shifts the phone to his other ear so he can hold it between his head and his shoulder as he puts away the binders in his hands. “I’m off in about thirty minutes and I’ve got an hour and a half before my shift at the store starts.”

 

“Brilliant, Parnasse and I will meet you at your apartment? We’d love to visit Bahorel, too.”

 

Feuilly is fairly certain he hears Montparnasse shout something again, but he’s too far away from the phone for it to be heard clearly. “He says he’d love to see Bahorel.”

 

“No, he didn’t,” Feuilly guesses.

 

“You are correct,” Jehan agrees. They laugh again, then— “Oh my god, _Mont_ , don’t let the kitten get that close to the edge! I’ve got to run, see you in thirty?”

 

“Bye, Jehan,” says Feuilly with a laugh of his own. It makes the rest of his shift go by easier, thinking about how soon he’ll be reunited with the brother he hasn’t seen in months. The métro is even on time, a pleasant surprise since he usually opts to walk home instead. He’s home before he knows it.

 

Montparnasse and Jehan wait for him on the steps of his building.

 

“About time,” Montparnasse mutters, throwing his cigarette on the ground. Feuilly shoves his arms but then they’re hugging and it’s wonderful, and Feuilly sighs the second Montparnasse’s arms wrap around him. “I missed you.”

 

“Missed you too, little bro,” Feuilly whispers back. “But Egypt! What the hell, that must have been incredible. Did you find what you were looking for?”

 

_Did you find the ties to your family that led you down there in the first place?_

 

“Sand and pyramids,” replies Parnasse dryly.

 

 _I didn’t find what I wanted_.

 

Jehan hugs Feuilly for a moment then they’re reaching for Montparnasse’s hand. “There’s more to the city than that,” they say lightly. “Egypt truly is incredible, Feu. If you can ever get away for your jobs long enough to travel, you’ve simply _got_ to visit. The culture is so incredibly rich down there.”

 

Montparnasse lazily kisses Jehan’s forehead. “Let’s get them inside,” he tells Feuilly. “They caught a bit of a cold on the journey home. I want to keep them out of the cold as long as possible.”

 

“Of course,” Feuilly says. He leads them inside, talking all the way. “It’s still amazing to me that you both can just up and leave your lives that easily. You were gone for months, but it didn’t cause any problems at all?”

 

“Well—” Montparnasse begins, but Jehan hushes them.

 

“My freelance work keeps me well enough off that I can take jobs as I see fit, where I see fit,” they say easily. “And no one has ever been able to say no to Mont, let’s all admit that openly right now.”

 

Montparnasse grins wickedly.

 

Jehan reaches into their bag. “Ta-da! Your gift,” they say proudly, presenting Feuilly with a handmade bag that looks like it’s full of smaller gifts. He narrows his eyes at the both of them.

 

“You got me more than one gift,” he states, an edge to his tone.

 

“Some of them are for Bahorel,” Montparnasse says innocently. He adjusts the collar of his button-up shirt and sticks his hands back in his jacket pockets. “Where is the handsome new groom anyway?”

 

Feuilly checks the time. “Should be home any second,” he says.

 

Something crashes at the door, loud and banging, followed by shouted swear words.

 

“And _there’s_ the blushing bride,” deadpans Feuilly.

 

The front door swings open dramatically, and Bahorel enters like the whirlwind he always is. “Honey, I’m ho— _fuck_ , okay, actually, I have a ton of shit, can you come help me?”

 

“No need to shout,” Jehan says mildly.

 

Bahorel screams and drops the box that’s in his hands. “You’re not my husband,” he shouts but then he’s rushing forward and scooping Jehan up into his arms and twirling them as he crushes them into a hug. Jehan’s laughter fills the air, twinkling and beautiful.

 

Montparnasse and Feuilly smile on fondly.

 

“God, it’s good to see you,” Bahorel says as he sets Jehan back on the ground. He nods at Feuilly and Mont. “Husband. Bro-in-law.”

 

Montparnasse sniffs. “Bahorel. Your fashion sense is impeccable as always.”

 

Bahorel barely glances down at what he’s wearing, he’s more hellbent on crushing Montparnasse in the same hug he just gave to Jehan. “You guys smell like happiness,” Bahorel sighs. “It’s literally so good to see you guys again, you’ve been away for so long. You missed so much! Chetta finally moved in with the boys. Grantaire got accepted into that fancy art school. Courf and Ferre got engaged, Marius got a cat. We got married.”

 

“One of these things is not like the others,” says Jehan.

 

“One of these things should have been disclosed with one’s brother before said thing happened, not months after when the brother finds out via their significant other’s social media,” says Montparnasse.

 

“Drama queen,” Feuilly says, affectionately squeezing Montparnasse’s arm. “Baz, they got us presents! Shall we look at them while Mont continues to pout?”

 

“I hate you,” Montparnasse mutters, but Feuilly’s known him for a long time and he can see a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips as he grabs Feuilly and Bahorel by the wrist and drags them to the couch. “Alright, go; open.”

 

“The bag itself was made by a wonderful couple we met who lived just a few meters outside of Cairo,” Jehan says. “Woven with a mixture of fine materials and grasses. Very sturdy, and not a total crime to fashion, acclaimed by none other than the fashion diva himself.”

 

Montparnasse shrugs carelessly. Jehan drapes themselves across his lap with ease. “It’s surprisingly easy to pair with an outfit,” he states.

 

Bahorel pulls out a rolled up tapestry; when he lets it fall loose, Feuilly sucks in a sharp breath. The tapestry displays a beautiful image of the river, detailed and intricate. “Woolen wall art,” Montparnasse tells them. “Every single stitch in that tapestry is done by hand. The man selling them gave it to us for practically a steal; he told us he didn’t think his art was worth much, anyway.”

 

“I want it,” Feuilly says immediately, taking the tapestry out of Bahorel’s hands.

 

They pull out delicate ornaments next. “Made by a glass burner,” Jehan tells them with a smile. “She offered us housing and food for over a month. She was amazing at what she did; she’s raising a family on her own, just sent off her eldest to Cambridge.”

 

They also get art made from camel bone, soft cotton t-shirts, several books, and—

 

“ _Holy actual Jesus fucking Christ_ ,” Feuilly breathes, hands shaking as he takes the final gift out of the bag. It’s rolled delicately, wrapped, and Feuilly traces it with his fingers. “Tell me this isn’t—”

 

“Honest-to-god papyrus?” Montparnasse says. He’s _actually_ smiling now. “What, you don’t like it?”

 

“Shut your fucking mouth, you’re the best brother that’s ever existed and I love you, and I’ll have a second wedding just so you can plan the entire thing as long as I can write my vows on this beautiful piece of papyrus,” Feuilly breathes. “This is the best gift I’ve ever received, it’s _beautiful_ , I—oh god, Mont, _thank you_.”

 

“You’re a nerd,” Mont replies. He’s got his usual air of nonchalance, but he reaches out and squeezes Feuilly’s knee. “You’re welcome.”

 

Feuilly eagerly extends the gift to show Bahorel, who smiles encouragingly at him but doesn’t truly understand it’s appeal or beauty. Feuilly can’t stop staring at it.

 

The others move on from this, advance the conversation and talk about the travels and catch up on everything that had been missed. Feuilly’s listening, sort of, but he’s mostly carefully undoing the wrapping and rolling out the papyrus as carefully as he can.

 

He’s still admiring the papyrus when he hears Montparnasse scream from the kitchen, then yell, “ _Fucking hell Jehan did you see what’s on their fridge I can’t do this anymore what kind of fresh hell._ ”

 

Feuilly and Bahorel look at each other for a second, then break down in giggles.

 

 

***

 

 

Feuilly has had a shitty day.

 

He’s had a shitty day, and he hates his jobs, and he hates working every damn day, and he hates going to school on top of it all, and he’s had a shitty day and it’s fucking _raining_ to top it all off.

 

Irritable people seek shelter from the rain inside the café, which makes it crowded, which makes people more irritable. Feuilly has to pick up multiple tables since there’s only one other server on, and all of his customers are short and snippy with him.

 

He’s had a shitty day, and the only thing that’s keeping him from walking out straight into the downpour is the thought that soon he’ll be off and headed home to his husband.

 

Which is it’s own special brand of pathetic anyway, because first of all they aren’t even in a relationship, and second of all Bahorel is kind of a dick, and when Feuilly comes home in moods like these he just pulls out the alcohol. Which is usually fine, except that the last time they did that, they got engaged. For their not-real marriage. But Feuilly has some very-real feelings for Bahorel. He hates the entire situation.

 

A party of ten walks in the door and begins to complain about the wait. Feuilly seriously contemplates quitting one of his jobs.

 

He gets a text from one of his other bosses ten minutes before his shift is over, asking him to come in and restock before the anticipated busy day tomorrow.

 

Feuilly fumes silently to himself, says yes, and goes to his next job pissed as hell.

 

**From: husband!!**

[7:15] uhhhh did you die?

[7:15] you were supposed to be home at six?

 

His boss tells him that he _only needs to stay until ten, then he can leave, is that alright?_

 

Feuilly bites his lip to keep from snapping and storms to the backroom to start stocking, muttering to himself and wondering when it’s all going to be worth it because he keeps telling himself it will be one day.

 

**To: husband!!**

[8:09] got called into the store. boss says i’ll be out by ten so we’ll see.

 

**From: husband!!**

[8:10] feu :(

 

**To: husband!!**

[8:22] don’t worry about it i’m fine. wait up for me?

 

**From: husband!!**

[8:22] always.

 

Bahorel, true to his word, is still awake and waiting for Feuilly when he gets home. There’s pizza on the counter, the smells of pie wafting from the kitchen, a movie set up on the television, and a pitiful attempt at a fort assembled in their front room.

 

Feuilly could cry.

 

He could kiss Bahorel senseless.

 

Bahorel’s already reaching for Feuilly as he practically collapses into his arms and clings to the soft fabric of Bahorel’s hoodie. He’s shaking, but the tears won’t fall; the anger is leaving his body in a soft breath as Feuilly replaces it with the safe feeling he gets when in Bahorel’s embrace. “God, how did you know absolutely everything I needed right now?” Feuilly gasps out. Bahorel holds him a bit tighter.

 

He sits Feuilly down on a pillow in the middle of the sad fort, and hands him a plate of pizza and a beer. He shuffles his feet shyly, which is odd because Bahorel has never been shy about anything in his life. “What,” Feuilly asks suspiciously.

 

Bahorel hands him a piece of paper.

 

It’s their list, from the fridge.

 

Added at the bottom, underneath all the other things they’ve added, in Bahorel’s handwriting reads — _Feuilly’s amazing and impressive work ethic._

 

Feuilly does start to cry then.

 

“Feuilly, you know you amaze me, right?” Bahorel says. He crouches down and reaches forward to wipe the tears as they fall from Feuilly’s eyes. “You always have. You have this supreme ability to juggle so many jobs, and it’s amazing to me because I have no idea how you do it. But you can’t _not_ be doing that. That’s maybe the most impressive part.”

 

Feuilly laughs pitifully. It’s kind of pathetic, mostly hysteric and a little gross since he’s crying.

 

“But you’re overworking yourself and it worries me,” Bahorel murmurs. His hand is still on Feuilly’s face. Warm, comforting, familiar—enticing. “And I was thinking—maybe you don’t _have_ to work so hard anymore. I mean. If you want to let a job go.”

 

Feuilly sniffles. “I swear to god you can read minds,” he says lamely. He puts his hand over Bahorel’s. “I do want to quit one. Maybe even two, I don’t know. All I know is that I’m miserable and I don’t want to do it anymore. But I can’t just quit my jobs.”

 

Bahorel presses his fingers into Feuilly’s cheek. “That’s what I’m trying to say,” he breathes. “Feuilly, you can say no, but. You don’t _have_ to do this anymore. Not while I’m here.”

 

“Bahorel, I’ve got to make my share—” Feuilly starts, already launching into a familiar argument. Bahorel shushes him gently.

 

“We’re married now,” he reminds Feuilly. “Legally, that means. What’s mine is yours—”

 

“ _No_. Nope, Baz, we’re not—”

 

Bahorel moves his hand and puts it over Feuilly’s mouth. “Dude, shut up, let me speak,” he says. He raises an eyebrow. “Okay? We got married. We did it because, financially, it was beneficial. This is another benefit, Feu. Let me help you. This is getting unhealthy, you aren’t sleeping, you’re angry all the time. Between the two of us having multiple jobs, that should be more than enough to get us by. Please, at least think about it.”

 

“I don’t want to take advantage of you,” Feuilly argues weakly. Part of him already knows what Bahorel will say next.

 

“You aren’t,” he whispers. “I’d tell you if you were. This is what a marriage is; compromises, sharing, working together through the hard times. Maybe it wasn’t conventional but it’s still legit, Feuilly, and I still care about you and this is how I can help. You’re my best friend—when you hurt, I hurt. This is how I can help you, please let me.”

 

Feuilly doesn’t reply. He _can’t_ reply, because this is such a big thing for Bahorel to offer but he knows Baz is doing it with the best of intentions. Bahorel, who is so kind and full of love and just wants the best for people, who hides the way he wears his heart on his sleeve beneath leather jackets and tattoos and a rough exterior and pastel-dyed hair and a non-conformity to stereotypes. Feuilly finds a new reason to be in love with Bahorel every day, and it’s dawning on him now that something he’s never truly appreciated is the way that Bahorel cares with every fiber of his being.

 

Feuilly is going to be taken care of for the rest of his life, regardless of whether or not they stay married, because Bahorel cares about him and won’t turn his back on a friend no matter what.

 

With shaking fingers, he picks up a pen from the coffee table and scribbles on his own new addition to their ever-growing list.

 

 

 

_—His ability to read my mind, and to always know what I need._

 

 

 

“Fine,” he murmurs, and Bahorel holds him close and doesn’t let go for a long time.

 

He quits two of his jobs the following morning, not needing all of them now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They have take-out dates.

 

Now with their fancy new joint bank account, they make it a luxury to have take-out dates once a week. Whoever’s on their way home will stop and get the food while the other sets up the Netflix and the couch for a binge-marathon. It’s Feuilly’s favorite part of the week, though he’d never admit it to anyone.

 

So naturally, he tells Enjolras.

 

“It’s just—” Feuilly sighs happily.

 

“Grossly domestic and thus everything you’ve ever dreamed of?” Enjolras teases. He’s sipping his coffee and looking at Feuilly with just a little bit of judgement in his eyes. He’s smiling though, so Feuilly knows it’s all in good-nature.

 

“You know domestic fantasies are my shit,” Feuilly says. He picks at his croissant. “I don’t know what else to say. It’s just—the best part of the whole week. We make fun of whatever show we decide to watch and we eat food straight out of the containers and it’s like the rest of the week doesn’t even matter anymore.”

 

“You also call them dates,” Enjolras notes. “Does this mean you two are dating?”

 

Feuilly pauses. His coffee cup lingers in the space between the counter and his mouth, frozen as he hesitates and tries to process the question. “Um,” he says. He furrows his brow. “No?”

 

Enjolras sighs. “You two are literally dating and you don’t even realize it. Montparnasse was right. This is unbearable.”

 

Feuilly scowls. “Don’t go teaming up with him, he’s going to make you as much of a drama queen as he is. Baz and I had nights similar to this all the time, nothing’s really different except that now we’re married so it’s a different name.”

 

Enjolras blinks at him. His mouth is dropped open. “Oh my god,” he mutters. “I can’t do this. You two are the most blind, insufferable, oblivious people I’ve ever met—”

 

“ _Excuse_ me,” Feuilly huffs, “which one of us went years pining for their significant other just to realize after so long that they’d felt the same way the entire time but been afraid to take that next step?”

 

“Literally, you.”

 

“Literally, _you_!” Feuilly argues. “Let’s not pretend that the rest of us didn’t have to put up with you and Grantaire for literal ages, because you could ask any person in the group how long they’d watched you two dance circles around each other and we’d all have an answer. Check and mate.”

 

Exasperated, Enjolras reaches out and grabs Feuilly’s hand. “Feu, from one pining idiot to another, take it from me,” Enjolras says. “Stop making us all suffer. Tell Bahorel how you feel. Set us all free.”

 

“Enjolras, I’m not ruining the peace that we have right now,” Feuilly snaps. “We have almost dates, we have almost-moments, and I’m fucking married to him. I’m scared to ruin that, so nothing changes. I can’t lose him.”

 

“You couldn’t lose him even if you told him you never wanted to see him again,” murmurs Enjolras. “That’s what’s so amazing about the two of you. It’s beautiful to see; you’re both fiercely loyal to one another without really understanding the lengths to which you’d go. But I’ve seen it tested—there’s not a damn thing on earth you wouldn’t do to make Bahorel smile, and he wouldn’t hesitate for a second if it meant making you happy.”

 

Feuilly sighs. “What if he _does_ have feelings for me now, like everyone says? But then we give a relationship a try and he realizes I’m not worth shit.”

 

Enjolras leans across the table to smack him upside the head. “Don’t spread nonsense like that,” he scolds. “Feuilly, you’ve heard every single one of your friends joke about being in love with you. Everyone in our group has had a crush on you for at least a little bit. All of us are amazing by you—most of all, Bahorel. Don’t let nonsense fill your head, because that boy is so enchanted by you there’s probably nothing you could do to change that.”

 

He’s known for a while now, known that there’s something more to his friendship and his marriage than either he or Bahorel let on. There’s an unspoken line, a fence both are scared to toe around or regard at all, so it’s neglected and distanced and they both pretend like everything is fine. But he has to admit; it’s hard to communicate when you’re looking at each other through the holes in a fence.

 

He’s known, and he’s thought about bridging the gap, and he’s thought about every possible way he could tell Bahorel, and he’s found that deep in his heart there’s something that will likely always hold him back from taking that final leap.

 

“I know I ought to tell him,” murmurs Feuilly. “We haven’t been platonic since before we even got engaged. Something’s holding me back, Enj. I don’t know how to get around it.”

 

“One of you’s got to,” says Enjolras softly. “You can’t keep on going like this.”

 

Feuilly wonders, briefly, how they went from swapping tales about the cute things Grantaire and Bahorel had done throughout the week to Enjolras giving him the nudge he needs to finally make his moves. He knows Enjolras only has the best in mind for him; Enjolras cares more deeply for his friends than anyone else Feuilly has ever met, and he’s truly fascinated to watch the lengths Enjolras goes to in order to ensure his friends’ happiness. This is no different, and Feuilly gets that—but it’s up to him to take a leap of faith, and there’s that buried-deep something inside of him that won’t let go of hesitation.

 

He spends the rest of the day with Enjolras’s words circling in his head. He knows the time must be soon, if it comes at all. He and Bahorel have been married for nearly five months at this point, time is flying by—soon Bahorel will be sending out applications to law schools and Feuilly will be graduating and getting a start on his career. At any time, Bahorel could bring up divorce.

 

Something sour curdles in Feuilly’s stomach at the thought.

 

He’d known from the start that it was a possibility, that their marriage was only that of convenience and that they’d discussed an impending divorce before they’d even signed the license. Deep inside, Feuilly fears that he’ll run out of time to confess to Bahorel the extent of his feelings, and that soon Baz will come to him with drafted divorce papers and tell him that it’s time they moved on from this.

 

_We’d probably only be married for a year, right?_

 

Bahorel’s voice keeps ringing in his ears. It makes Feuilly sick to think about. He wants two years, ten years, ten decades. Ten _lifetimes_ , and he knows he’d spend every last one of them with Bahorel.

 

So that’s it, Feuilly’s too scared of the future to let his own insecurities rule him anymore. He’s going to tell Bahorel, he’s going to come clean and he’s going to tell Bahorel how obnoxiously in love with him he is, and then ideally they’ll have that lifetime Feuilly’s been dreaming of since the day he realized he was in love in the first place.

 

As soon as he gets home, he’s telling Bahorel.

 

 

 

Except, as the night goes on, he doesn’t _want_ to wait. It gets harder and harder to sit at the library and try to study when he knows that tonight, _everything_ is going to change for him. His leg is bouncing with anticipation and he’s eager to just _go_ until finally he can’t take it anymore. He slams all of his stuff into his bag and then he’s racing, he’s tearing out of the library and rushing down the street.

 

Bahorel’s supposed to be at work until later. Feuilly needed to kill time, which is why he’d been pretending to study at the library. But it’s got to be a slow night; Feuilly can’t imagine that many people coming to box during dinner time.

 

Feuilly redirects himself almost out of instinct. He finds himself on the same street as Bahorel’s gym before he knows it.

 

Okay, so his night will start with Feuilly dragging Bahorel away from work early to bear his entire soul on his sleeve. Perfect, that doesn’t sound terrifying or like the worst idea Feuilly’s ever had, _ever._

 

The gym is almost empty when Feuilly walks through the door.

 

Bahorel said he’d be at work—Feuilly is like, eighty percent sure. He’s thinking now that maybe Bahorel said he’d be off by now, but he was almost certain Baz said he worked the afternoon shift. Bahorel's boss is wiping down the counter at the front, and she smiles at Feuilly as he approaches.

 

"Hey," she greets. "Bahorel's husband, right?"

 

"Feuilly," he confirms, shaking her hand. "Is Baz still here?"

 

She laughs. Feuilly isn't quite sure why, but she's also looking at him like he's the dumbest person she's talked to today so he's not sure what he did. "No, he ducked out early," she says. She raises an eyebrow at him. "He said it was date night, he had to go get ready?"

 

Feuilly's heart leaps to his throat. "Oh?" he stammers. She's still kind of laughing at him.

 

"Ooh, you _forgot_ ," she teases. "You're supposed to save the forgetfulness until you've been married for a few years, babe, not a few months."

 

Feuilly laughs half-awkwardly. The word keeps circling in his head, _date_ , making his stomach clench and his heart pound. _Bahorel must be planning something_ , Feuilly thinks, _it's a surprise and he's planning something for tonight and what if this is it, he feels the same way?_

 

He's hesitant to let himself hope.

 

But god damn him, his heart is soaring with the mere possibility.

 

"I didn't know it was date night," says Feuilly honestly, giddily. He's grinning like a madman but she just grins right on back. "He's planning something, the big sap. _God_."

 

"It's sweet how in love you two are with each other," she says softly. Her smile turns gentle, and she reaches out to squeeze Feuilly's hand. "Not everyone is lucky enough to feel what that's like. It's beautiful to know that true love like that still exists out there."

 

There's warmth spreading through Feuilly's entire being, seeping through his veins and in his bone marrow and in his soul. He’s only growing more hopeful by the second, but at this point he's certain nothing could bring him down.  "He's something special," Feuilly murmurs.

Hes

"You should hear the way he talks about you," she laughs. "Now get the hell out my gym. Go, get out. Your man planned some super sappy date and it's disgusting me, leave."

 

He practically sprints out the door.

 

 _Why does he live so far from the fucking gym?_ Feuilly isn’t above running the entire way to their apartment if that’s what it takes. Somewhere at home, Bahorel is waiting for him and he’s planned a _date_ and Feuilly’s so in love with him his chest is bursting, bubbling over the edge and spreading far enough to fill the entire street. Feuilly wants to shout it from the rooftops—he wants to hold Bahorel tightly and whisper it for only him to hear.

 

The streets get more familiar the closer he gets to home, every landmark a welcome sight as he races against the clock. He’s always loved where he’s lived, loved the location and the beauty. The streets of Paris have never been more beautiful than they are today, shining and romantic and Feuilly is _soaring_ above them.

 

He’s out of breathe when he reaches his building.

 

His key gets stuck in the door again, but who is Feuilly to care right now?

 

Feuilly swings the door open—

 

The apartment is empty.

 

“Oh,” says Feuilly softly. Something shrinks inside him.

 

He puts his keys on the counter and slowly shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it on the coat rack. The apartment is exactly as he left it this morning, not a single thing different. Bahorel isn’t here. Feuilly sits down soundlessly on the couch, brow furrowed, and draws his knees to his chest.

 

He must have beaten Bahorel home, he decides. Maybe Baz decided tonight was takeout date night and forgot to tell Feuilly. Maybe his “big sappy date” was their regularly scheduled routine; Feuilly doesn’t dare let himself get disheartened.

 

It doesn’t matter what Bahorel has or hasn’t planned. He told his boss it was date night, and date night it will be. Feuilly’s coming clean no matter what; he doesn’t care if he tells Bahorel he’s in love with him while they’re eating food out of boxes or while they’re eating a candle-lit meal. His feelings haven’t changed, won’t change because of a setting.

 

So he’ll sit on the couch and he’ll wait for Bahorel to get home. He’s waited all these years to be able to say something; what’s a little more time?

 

He’ll wait.

 

 

 

He falls asleep on the couch.

 

 

 

Bahorel doesn’t come home until dawn.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The door opens quietly.

 

Feuilly stirs out of instinct, when the floor creaks and the door shuts just as softly as it had been eased open. He's blearily wiping at his eyes, trying to bring himself to full consciousness.

 

" _Ah, fuck_ ," whispers Bahorel softly.

 

"Baz?" Feuilly mumbles, sitting up. Bahorel is standing by the door, just standing there, looking at Feuilly where he'd fallen asleep on the couch.

 

_Why had he fallen asleep on the couch?_

 

"Time s'it?" Feuilly asks through a yawn. He's struggling to even get his eyes open all the way.

 

It's light in the apartment.

 

_Did he sleep there all night?_

 

He's wide awake at the thought.

 

Bahorel's wearing the same clothes from the night before.

 

Feuilly's whole body grows cold.

 

"It's just after seven," Bahorel says gently. He takes a few steps forward. "Did you sleep on the couch?"

 

"You're just getting in," Feuilly states. His mouth tastes sour; there's tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. "I stopped by the gym last night, and your boss said you left early for a date, and you're just getting in."

 

“Feu," Bahorel begins. Feuilly stands up abruptly.

 

“You—" he starts, but he's shaking and his heart is shattering in his chest and the words tremble as they escape his lips. "I thought."

 

“Feuilly—" Bahorel tries again.

 

"I've got to go," Feuilly hisses. He feels _so_ out of place. "I've got—I’m going to be late for work. I'm."

 

"Feuilly, can we talk about this?" Bahorel asks. He reaches out, tries to grab Feuilly's hand.

 

The warm metal of his wedding ring brushes against Feuilly's fingers.

 

Feuilly recoils as if he's been burned.

 

Bahorel's talking but the blood is rushing to Feuilly's ears and he can't hear a thing. His face is red, he thinks he's going to be sick; nothing seems _real_.

 

Bahorel went on a date last night with someone that wasn't Feuilly, and it feels like cheating even though they aren't even rightfully together.

 

The door slams heavily behind him and then all sound comes rushing to Feuilly's ears. Someone's hyperventilating; Feuilly thinks it might be him. He realizes too late, as he's running down the stairs, that he doesn't have to work until much later today, but none of it seems to matter and Feuilly can't _breathe—_

 

He bursts out of the building onto the street.

 

Paris is quiet in its early hours.

 

Feuilly gasps for breath.

 

 

 

Enjolras doesn't have a car, so he calls Montparnasse.

 

Mont doesn’t say a word when Feuilly slips into the car and closes the door behind him. He just reaches over and grasps his brother’s hand firmly in his own. Feuilly relaxes at his touch; it’s easier to breathe, now, with Montparnasse here, even if they don’t exchange words. Montparnasse begins driving—Feuilly stares out the window and studies the streets of Paris.

 

There’s so much that’s unfamiliar about the place he’s lived in for so long. So many things he’s known or seen for years that have never been anything other than a place he walks past on his way to work—so many streets unseen, sights unexplored. People all over spend their entire lives wanting to come to Paris. Feuilly’s been neglecting it all along.

 

He wanted to explore the city with someone he loved.

 

How foolish he was to let himself hope that it would be Bahorel.

 

“You said he was in love with me,” Feuilly whispers.

 

Montparnasse is silent.

 

Feuilly closes his eyes, leans forward and rests his head on the cold window glass. “You said he felt the same,” he murmurs, and he sounds more broken now than he ever has before.

 

Montparnasse squeezes his hand a bit tighter.

 

He takes Feuilly to his apartment.

 

Feuilly doesn’t talk when Montparnasse parks, just sits in the car and waits until Parnasse comes around and collects him. Montparnasse wraps his arms around Feuilly and helps him walk forward. Feuilly leans a bit too much into the embrace.

 

 _It’s still odd to think that Mont lives here_ , thinks Feuilly as he’s lead. It’s not his brother’s usual scene; though, he supposes, the place had been originally just Jehan’s. Montparnasse still claims he doesn’t live here sometimes; Feuilly almost smiles at the thought.

 

“Oh, you poor dear,” Jehan sighs, the second he enters the apartment. “Darling, sit him down on the couch, I’ll get some tea brewing. Feuilly, do you have a preference?”

 

Feuilly shrugs.

 

Jehan and Montparnasse share a look.

 

Their couch is comfortable, if nothing else. Feuilly wonders if he can ask them if he can sleep on it for the next few nights. He doesn’t want to go home—not to Bahorel, who went on a date with another person and didn’t even _tell_ Feuilly, who _married_ Feuilly and spent the whole night away from home and didn’t bother to let Feuilly know that _no, man, my feelings for you are just platonic, but it’s cool that we got married!_

 

Feuilly’s almost certain he starts to cry.

 

Montparnasse makes a sound of alarm and almost instantly Jehan and Mont are at Feuilly’s side. Okay, so he’s definitely crying. Jehan sets down the teacup and reaches forward immediately, wrapping Feuilly in their embrace. “Oh, Feu,” they sigh. Feuilly just cries.

 

“Bahorel did something,” Montparnasse says.

 

There’s barely-contained rage there; subtle, but Feuilly has known Parnasse long enough to recognize the tension in the corners of his tone. Montparnasse angry is something to be feared. Terrible, beautiful, unstoppable when motivated. That anger now is directed at Bahorel, and Feuilly’s too stuck in his own head to think anything of it.

 

“What?” Jehan asks.

 

“He doesn’t love me,” Feuilly stutters out, into the fabric of Jehan’s sweater. “Everyone said he did, but he doesn’t. He went on a date with someone last night. He didn’t get home until this morning. Everyone _said_ , but people in love don’t go on dates with _other people_!”

 

Jehan’s head drops, now resting atop Feuilly’s. “Oh,” they murmur.

 

Feuilly sniffs pathetically. He’s vaguely aware of Montparnasse carding his fingers through his hair while Jehan rubs circles onto his back. They’re both comforting him, and it’s exactly what he hadn’t realized he’d needed.

 

“I’ll kill him,” murmurs Mont.

 

“ _No_ ,” Jehan chides.

 

“I’d be a widow,” says Feuilly, miserable.

 

His tea grows cold.

 

 

 

He spends the next two nights at their apartment.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Bahorel’s figured out you’re here,” Jehan announces one day. They sit down next to him on the couch, tucking their legs neatly. “I think he always knew; I mean, this is Bahorel we’re talking about. But he knows for certain now and he just texted me and asked if I thought it was okay for him to come over.”

 

Feuilly shrugs.

 

“He hasn’t tried to talk to me in two days,” Feuilly says. He flips the page of his book, but they both know he isn’t really reading it.

 

“You left your phone at your apartment,” Jehan reminds him. “You don’t _know_ that he hasn’t tried to get ahold of you. He’s been worried sick, texting all of us and trying to find out if you were okay. He’s been respectful of you wanting distance; don’t discredit that.”

 

“It doesn’t really matter,” snaps Feuilly. “He wants to date other people; he doesn’t want to be with me. Whatever feelings I have on the subject, they don’t matter anymore.”

 

“Your feelings are still important,” Jehan shoots back. They’re frowning at Feuilly;  it’s the closest he’s ever seen them to angry. “Both of you need to pull your heads out of your asses. _You_ need to stop hiding out. We’re more than happy to have you here, anytime, you _know_ that, but you have _got_ to stop avoiding your husband. Grow up! Have the damn fight you don’t want to have. Deal with it. He needs to communicate with you; about what he wants, about what he’s doing, the whole nine yards. God, this is still a _relationship_ —I’m not sure either of you understand that! It doesn’t matter at this point whose feelings got hurt. You’re married. Handle it like a married couple, not like petulant children.”

 

Feuilly blinks in shock. It’s _definitely_ the most angry he’s ever seen Jehan. They huff at the end of their speech and brush back a strand of hair that had fallen in front of their face. They soften their gaze when they see the look on Feuilly’s face. “I’m sorry,” Jehan sighs. “It’s just so hard to watch you two dance circles around one another. Communication and upfrontness—do you think Montparnasse and I made it this far by never speaking to one another?”

 

“Honestly, I’m still impressed you guys are making it at all,” Feuilly admits. “No offense.”

 

Jehan laughs breathlessly. “None taken, my friend. We are quite the unlikely pair; but we learned how to make it work. We love our differences and we cherish our similarities and we adore one another. That’s all that matters at the end of the day.”

 

Feuilly smiles. At the end of the day, that’s all he wants, too.

 

“You and Bahorel are a perfect fit,” Jehan whispers. They reach across the couch and grab Feuilly’s hand with their own. “I know it seems so hopeless now but you two have always had each other and that doesn’t go away. Something tells me that we don’t know the full story; you need to talk to Baz and find it all out.”

 

Feuilly looks at their intertwined hands. “I’ve got to go home, haven’t I?”

 

Jehan nods. “It’s now or never, it seems.”

 

“Thank you,” Feuilly mumbles. “For your hospitality. For your advice. For enduring me in all my pigheadedness.”  
  
“We love you, unfortunately,” Jehan teases, squeezing his hand affectionately. “And you _are_ my family. The lot of you are all I’ve got in this world, it’s only second nature to want the best for all of you.”

 

Feuilly kisses the top of their head. “You’re good people, my dear friend.”

 

He leaves not long after.

 

Back on the streets of Paris, Feuilly pauses on the steps of the building and takes in his surroundings. It’d be a long walk back to his apartment, but part of him is tempted to take it. He wonders if it’s that old sense of longing returning, or if it’s just a desire to put of the inevitable even longer.

 

He allows himself another moment to cherish the beauty of the simpleness around him, then makes a promise to the cobbled, colored sidewalks. “I’ll explore you one day,” he vows, “and maybe Bahorel will be by my side.”

 

He won’t let himself hope this time.

 

 

 

He takes a cab home, because he knows he can’t go on postpone this any longer. He’s been a coward, he’s been hiding behind his brother and his insecurities and a million other things. A few days ago, there’d been nothing stopping him from telling Bahorel that he was in love with him; today, Feuilly wonders if he’ll ever be able to say the words out loud again.

 

He supposes, if it’s what Bahorel wants, that whatever they have is going to come to an end soon. Especially if Bahorel is out there dating other people.

 

 _Best friends_. That’s all they ever vowed to be.

 

Except—it’s _not_. They made actual _vows_ to one another, vows to remain by each other’s side no matter what happens. And Feuilly, well. He ran away the second things got hard. Bahorel faltered for once second and Feuilly fled, all he’s ever done is run away, and he _despises_ himself for doing the same now. Bahorel’s his husband, the one person he should turn to and not away from. More importantly, they _are_ best friends. They told each other everything even before they went and complicated it further by throwing a marriage license into the equation. Feuilly’s been so confused ever since Bahorel proposed, he hasn’t had a sense of direction in so long. They’ve long-since passed platonic; though, the more Feuilly thinks on it the more certain he is that they never really were. Even if they _did_ get divorced and try to date other people, how could they explain it? _This is my best friend, who is coincidentally my ex-husband. But don’t worry! We got a divorce and now we’re back to pretending that it’s just fine being best friends_.

 

They seriously complicated things. Feuilly wonders if they even put any thought into this at all.

 

He knows why _he_ rushed into it; he’s been in love with Bahorel forever, even if he didn’t realize it at the time. He was blinded by his feelings, seduced by the idea of marrying the person he was in love with, oblivious to the implications and the consequences, and too drunk on tequila and Bahorel to properly think about _why_ it wasn’t a good idea in the first place. His heart got in the middle, and Feuilly just let it happen.

 

How familiar he is with running away at any given moment; the thought that he could have a reason to _stay_ for once was so enchanting that he couldn’t bear to walk away from it. Foster home to foster home, from city to city, running away whenever he felt like he could do better.

  
He’d never felt the need to run away from Bahorel.

 

Baz is the best he could ever get.

 

Bahorel is _better_ than that; he’s unattainable in all his greatness, the kind of person Feuilly would love to spend a lifetime with but could never deserve. They were both assholes, sarcastic and boisterous and not blinded to the realities of the world. Feuilly had never met someone with the capacity to be both a total dick and the greatest man on earth. He’s an enigma, inexplainable, and fascinating to watch; Feuilly had been drawn in by his contradictory behavior, but he knew he was a goner the second Bahorel smiled at him for the first time.

 

 _God_ , Feuilly’s really be in love with him since the beginning, hasn’t he?

 

He was a hopeless case since day one.

 

Feuilly thinks that it doesn’t matter now, because in Bahorel’s _literal vows_ he promised to stick it out with Feuilly no matter what. He—

 

Wait.

 

He replays all of Bahorel’s vows back through his mind.

 

He’d nearly memorized every word, clung to every syllable that had fallen from Bahorel’s lips that day and held them in the safety of his heart. He never wanted to forget, never wanted to go another day without thinking of the words Bahorel had sworn to him on the day they’d gotten married. He’d nearly _memorized_ them for Christ’s sake, but he replays every damn word back until—

 

The cab pulls to the side of the road just as Feuilly finds what he’s looking for. His heart is racing again; he’s certain he’s found it, the missing piece to the puzzle he’s been searching for after all this time. He thanks the driver hastily, then he’s practically _falling_ out of the cab in his hurry to get inside.

 

He sprints up the stairs. He’s already digging through his pocket to find his key, he’s praying that it’s there and that it doesn’t stick and that he can just get inside— _inside_ , where Bahorel’s been, where their future lays undetermined, where everything is calm before the storm. Feuilly’s a tornado of emotions, everything is swirling and his heart is _pounding_ and this could be destructive if it gets out of hand. But _god_ , he’s finally got it now. The answer he’d been waiting for.

 

The door swings open.

 

Bahorel’s in the kitchen. He straightens instantly when Feuilly stumbles inside.

 

“You’re home—” he starts, sounding relieved.

 

“You said _from_ _here on out_.”

 

Bahorel’s mouth closes. He blinks slowly. “What?” he finally replies, after a moment of hesitation.

 

Feuilly takes a step closer. “You said,” he begins again. “You said, ‘from here on out’. In your vows, when you _married_ me. You said, you’ve been honored to call me your best friend for so long, but that you were going to call me your husband from _here on out_. As in, for the rest of your life; as in, not ever _not_ calling me your husband again. As in—”

 

“As in, I never want to divorce you, idiot,” Bahorel completes. Feuilly’s heart skips a beat in his chest.

 

“You suck at communicating,” he bites out. They’re toeing the line of their happy ending, but he’s got to say this first, got to let it out. “You’re literally awful at it. Talking is fucking difficult, I get that, but you’re the absolute worst when it comes to letting me know things. And you go back on your words. You said I’d be your husband from here on out, but you went on a fucking _date_ the other night and didn’t come home until the next morning, and if you’d have _communicated_ with me then at least I’d fucking know what was going on and know if I was wasting my time wondering whether or not it was something I did.”

 

“ _Feuilly_ ,” Bahorel says, exasperated.

 

“You’re also confusing as all hell,” Feuilly continues, because he’s on a roll now. He doesn’t think the words will ever stop. “Like, you proposed to me and you gave me a legitimate ring, and you kissed me and it was different than the time you kissed me to fuck me. And you call me your husband like it’s the simplest thing in the world, and you tell strangers about me, but you fist bump me at the end of the night and you never seem to notice that I never wanted this to end and you go on dates with strangers even though you’re married. You suck at communicating and you’re confusing as hell.”

 

“Feu—”

 

“You suck and you’re confusing and I fell in love with you anyway,” Feuilly gasps out. “I fell in love with you a long ass time ago, and I’ve loved you ever since, and you proposed and I couldn’t say no and I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But god _damn_ it, Bahorel, I’m so fucking in love with you. And I’m so _angry_ at you right now and it’s really fucking confusing. Because you look really fucking sexy in an apron, like fuck off, and you look so damn cute my heart is crying, but also looking at your face pisses me the hell off because _fuck_ you, you put me through all of this and I still love you and I don’t know where you stand and it’s so frustrating.”

 

“Oh my god, you _asshole_ ,” Bahorel shouts. He crosses the room in two steps and then he’s right in front of Feuilly, his hand is fisted around Feuilly’s shirt and he’s pulling Feuilly up and kissing him and—

 

Oh.

 

So this is what it’s like.

 

He’s angry, they both are, but they kiss each other like they’ve been doing it all their lives. Bahorel’s rough in his anger, Feuilly demanding; he wraps Bahorel’s hair around his fingers and tugs him down, Bahorel presses him against the wall and licks into his mouth. It’s fighting and forgiving and falling in love all at once. Feuilly never knew kissing could be like this.

 

It’s Bahorel who pulls away first.

 

“If you’d fucking let me _talk_ ,” he laughs, breathless, wrecked. Feuilly bites at his jawline and soothes it with his tongue. “ _Christ_. If you’d shut up for one fucking second, then you’d hear me say that I’ve been in love with you the whole damn time too, you dick.”

 

Feuilly moves to a spot on Bahorel’s neck, right where his collarbone begins. “You have a shitty fucking way of showing it,” he murmurs, sucking a kiss to the skin.

 

Bahorel hisses. His leg slips in between Feuilly’s, and he ruts up against him. “I wasn’t on a date,” he gasps out. “I was— _fuck_ —with Grantaire. Planning a date so I could take _you_ out. I thought you were the most oblivious motherfucker.”

 

Feuilly grabs at Bahorel’s jaw and tugs him down for another messy kiss. It’s _amazing_ , Feuilly’s heart is pounding in his chest, and Bahorel presses him more tightly against the door. They’d been _not_ doing this for so long, _god_ , they were so fucking dumb. How much time they’ve wasted, how many opportunities have passed.

 

“You,” Feuilly grits out again, “ _suck_. At communication.”

 

Bahorel grinds his hips up again. Feuilly moans as their dicks brush against one another. Bahorel gasps against Feuilly’s neck, bites and makes a mark of his own, rocks his hips in time to Feuilly’s gasps of pleasure.

 

It’s so fucking _hot_ , Bahorel is so hot, Feuilly feels like he’s on fire. His hands are curled tightly into the fabric of Bahorel’s shirt; Bahorel’s hands are on his hips, holding him, moving him forward to match his own thrusts.

 

“P- _please_ ,” Feuilly whines. “Bed— _bedroom_.”

 

Bahorel shudders. “I like it when you beg,” he murmurs in Feuilly’s ear—it goes _straight_ to his dick.

 

Bahorel lifts him easily, wraps Feuilly’s legs around his waist and holding him up as he makes his way to a bedroom. Feuilly, for what it’s worth, kisses and bites along Bahorel’s jaw. Bahorel, though distracted, is surprisingly determined; they make it to a bedroom and then he’s _throwing_ Feuilly onto the bed and—

 

Fuck. _Fuck_. That should _not_ be as hot as it is.

 

Bahorel strips off his shirt, and Feuilly watches with a dry mouth. Bahorel is so _fucking sexy_ ; he practically climbs on top of Feuilly and yanks him up by his shirt again to kiss him fast and messy.

 

“I’ve been fantasizing about tearing these damn flannels off of you for so fucking long,” he murmurs against Feuilly’s lips. Feuilly gasps again. Bahorel’s hands tease at his hips, slipping underneath his shirt and tracing fingertips along his abdomen.

 

“Are those the only— _fuck_ —fantasies you have?” Feuilly moans. He grabs usually at Bahorel’s back, scratches at the skin there. Bahorel shudders against him.

 

“I’m going to show you every last one of my _fantasies_ ,” he grows. He pulls Feuilly off and _tears_ the flannel off, throwing it hastily across the room. Feuilly’s shirt follows not long after—as well as half of his sanity, as Bahorel pinches a nipple between his fingers and murmurs, “But first I’m going to put my mouth on your dick and blow you worth an inch of your life.”

 

Feuilly wants to cry.

 

He’s always been loud in bed, worse when he’s drunk. The first time he and Bahorel had sex, Bahorel had been ridiculously turned on by how loud he could be. Lucky for Feuilly, Bahorel’s got a dirty mouth—and a particularly skilled one.

 

Bahorel settles Feuilly back down on the bed, adjusts himself on top of Feuilly and kisses him again and again. Making out shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but Feuilly’s beginning to find that everything Bahorel does drives him insane. Eventually, he pulls away and starts trailing kisses down Feuilly’s body, licking freckles and scars, teasing at the skin of Feuilly’s hips. His hands press firmly against Feuilly’s thighs, holding him down and making it impossible for Feuilly to thrust up and find _any_ kind of friction. He’s ridiculously hard, more turned on now than he’s ever been in his entire life.

 

Bahorel unbuttons Feuilly’s trousers, and slides him out of the rest of his clothes in one easy motion.

 

“ _Holy shit_ ,” Feuilly moans.

 

Bahorel nudges Feuilly’s legs apart and settles himself down between them, his hands resting on Feuilly’s thighs. He kisses the sensitive skin of the inside of Feuilly’s thighs and slowly makes his way up, dragging his teeth along as he does. Feuilly cries out and wraps his hands in the sheets, in Bahorel’s hair, in whatever he can get his hands on. Then, all too soon and not soon enough—

 

Bahorel takes Feuilly’s dick in his mouth.

 

“ _Jesus Christ,_ ” Feuilly gasps out.

 

Bahorel has a _very_ skilled mouth.

 

He runs his tongue along the underside of Feuilly’s cock, licks the tip then takes in as much as he can. His tongue is a fucking _wild card_ , moving along Feuilly’s dick. Feuilly thrusts up without thinking about it; Bahorel moans, and the sound vibrates along Feuilly’s dick.

 

Feuilly wants him to do it again and again.

 

Bahorel’s hands settle on Feuilly’s hips, encouraging him to move and setting the speed as he fucks into Bahorel’s mouth. Bahorel grunts as he sucks Feuilly’s dick, picks up the pace and takes Feuilly in his mouth like he was born to do this. It’s the hottest sex Feuilly’s ever had, the best blowjob he’s ever received, and Bahorel—

 

Bahorel moans again, _loudly,_ when Feuilly puts more force into his thrust.

 

“I’m gonna—” he gasps out, yanking on Bahorel’s hair yet again.

 

To Feuilly’s surprise, Bahorel pulls off.

 

His noise of complaint dies on his tongue when Bahorel climbs back up and kisses Feuilly. It dawns on Feuilly, probably too late, that Bahorel is still wearing his pants. That’s an easy fix—Feuilly wraps his arms around Bahorel and in one quick movement, flips them and settles himself, straddled on top of Bahorel’s lap.

 

“Oh,” Bahorel says pleasantly, surprised.

 

“You aren’t the only one who works out,” grins Feuilly. “But you are the only one wearing too much clothes. Lose the pants, so I can fuck you.”

 

“ _Christ_ ,” Bahorel groans, but he lifts his hips as Feuilly moves to slide his trousers off.

 

Bahorel naked is a sight to behold, same as Feuilly remembers it being the first time.

 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, locking eyes with Bahorel.

 

“I’m in love with you, too,” Bahorel responds.

 

Feuilly kisses him again.

 

The sensation is completely different now, as they rut against each other while they make out. Bare skin in contact, dicks brushing together, finally on the same page. Feuilly gets now why people say it’s different when you have sex with someone you’re in love with. It’s nothing he’s ever experienced before.

 

Bahorel is thrusting messily, desperate for any kind of friction. He groans pathetically into Feuilly’s shoulder when Feuilly reaches down and takes both their dicks in his hand. It’s not the best angle, it’s not the most comfortable way; but their cocks pressed together and Feuilly’s hand wrapped around them provides them both with the pressure they’d needed. Bahorel begins to thrust again, and Feuilly desperately kisses him.

 

Feuilly’s moaning into Bahorel’s mouth, unable to keep quiet even if he wanted to; Bahorel urges him on, murmurs dirty talk back and scratches his nails along Feuilly’s back.

 

He says, “Come on, babe. Come for your _husband_.”

 

Feuilly gasps out in surprise; he comes suddenly, stuttering and gasping and beautiful, and Bahorel follows him over the edge mere seconds later. They ride it out together, lips pressed together and bodies shaking. For a moment, all either of them can do is lay where they are, panting for breath.

 

Eventually, Feuilly shifts and lays down on the bed, next to Bahorel. He curls up against his husband’s chest; Bahorel’s arms twine around him, their legs tangle together. They’ve got a bit of a mess to clean up, but his head is still spinning and his heart is still pounding and none of it seems important anymore except for Bahorel’s lips pressed to Feuilly’s forehead.

 

“I’m in love with you,” Bahorel whispers. His breath tickles Feuilly’s forehead.

 

“And I’m in love with you,” Feuilly whispers back, against Bahorel’s chest. Bahorel lets out a soft laugh.

 

“That’s gay,” he murmurs. Feuilly kisses his neck.

 

“You’re married to a man, Baz, I’m going to have to say that _gay_ is to be expected at this point,” Feuilly teases.

 

Bahorel reaches up, presses his fingers to Feuilly’s chin and makes him look up. They lock eyes; Bahorel’s beautiful, even like this, even with the slightest trace of insecurities shrouding his beautiful features. “ _Don’t ever leave me_ ,” Bahorel breathes.

 

Feuilly reaches up as far as he can, presses the smallest of kisses to the corner of Bahorel’s mouth.

 

“ _I never could_.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

They frame the list they'd been posting on the fridge; after adding a few additions, of course. Circled at the bottom, and perhaps the most important reason of all, in bold and heavy handwriting reads:  _because we're in love_.

 

 

 

Jehan is right—they are a perfect fit. They’ve got each other now, and that won’t change. Feuilly lets himself hope. Bahorel lets himself be more honest. They both know they’ve got a long way to go. They did this all backwards, after all. But they wouldn’t change it for the world. One day, they’ll have a proper ceremony celebrating their marriage. One day, they’ll move into a nicer place. They’ll start a bakery together; Bahorel will bring home a dog to surprise Feuilly. There will be forgotten anniversaries, missed dates, fights, forgiveness, and laughter. Everything that comes with marriage, however unconventional it’s origins were. They’ll have a beautiful future, and a big family, and a long life, and a lot of things to fix together.

 

But they don’t know that yet.

 

All they know now is that they’ve spent so much time wasted; all they understand now is that they’ve been a perfect fit since the beginning.

 

They lie in bed, curled around one another, hearts beating in sync. 

 

And they’ll stay that way—in sync—for as long as they can.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [tumblr](https://feuillyys.tumblr.com) crying abt les mis or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tannscotts) posting about various things.
> 
>  
> 
> comment, kudos, bookmark below!


End file.
